


Armistice

by LittleRedCosette



Series: Armistice [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Captivity, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, M/M, Military, Post-Inception, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedCosette/pseuds/LittleRedCosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(It's not that Eames doesn't love Arthur, of course. It's just that he makes it so bloody difficult, sometimes.)</p><p>It's been ten years. Ten years of dreams and deaths and all the wondrous things they've come to breathe like oxygen. It's been ten years since they stood on opposite sides of the river, toes in the water, waiting to swim.</p><p>They're different men now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

And now come the tears, heavy and hot, as it comes clear this is all we got,

As I hold you to my bed, like a cancer or a curse, now, be my loving nurse,

As we fall back, into the impossible dream.

_Augustine – Patrick Wolf_

**(In which luck has nothing to do with it.)**

_Milwaukee_ _; 17 th October 2012_

 ‘Jesus, you’re still a kid.’

This is the greeting Arthur receives as he sits down on an elegant barstool that is more style than seat, and he does not reply until there is a dry martini in his hand and the bartender is safely chatting away at the other end of the bar. When he does reply, he is terse and distracted by the gathering of loud businessmen clustered around three times as many empty beer bottles only a few feet away.

‘Wouldn’t have pictured you in a place like this,’ he says, and sips his martini.

Arthur is not fond of martinis, but it quenches a need for something else that has been bothering him all day.

‘Maybe I’ve changed,’ Mike Everett replies. He takes a sip of his own drink, which Arthur knows is rum and coke, because he knows Mike hasn’t really changed at all.

‘Maybe I’ve changed, too,’ he says instead.

‘No you haven’t,’ Mike laughs. The ice in his glass clinks and laughs with him. ‘You still don’t look a day over twenty.’

‘Lucky genes,’ Arthur says quietly. Most of the time it’s useful, looking so very young; he’s gotten quite used to being underestimated over the years. But right now, sitting in a dimly lit bar in the middle of Milwaukee with Mike Everett of all people, he is reminded of how once upon a time he was overestimated, and it’s discomfiting in a way he isn’t used to at all.

Once or twice he’s wondered about where he’d be now, if things had turned out differently. He’s never been particularly retrospective, though, and the wondering never lasts.

‘What can I do for you, Mike?’

The wistful smile on Mike’s face fades, and he casts a wary glance around the room. The businessmen have ordered another round, and the bartender is doing his best to claim the attention of two young women perching delicately on the opposite corner of the bar. The dull thud of the music thrumming from the speakers mounted on every corner is almost soothing.

‘I think Aldman’s had me tagged.’

Arthur tilts his head softly, hiding the hot squeeze of worry that twists his stomach and comes out in his face as a grimace.

‘Major Aldman?’

‘ _General_ Aldman, now, as you well know,’ Mike snaps.

‘Do you think the army’s tracking us?’ Arthur asks.

Mike doesn’t reply straight away. He looks tired. His eyes look darker, pink around the edges and full of a quiet fear that Arthur hasn’t seen in years. He looks softer than he used to, but there’s still something hard about the way he sits, his spine strong and his elbows tucked close to him. He’s kept his jet black hair cropped to regulation, even after all these years.

‘I think Aldman’s capable of a long grudge. And I think he’s one of the nastiest bastards I’ve ever known.’

‘And you think he – what? Got to you? You’re free and clear. Aren’t you?’

Mike shrugs, and gulps his rum and coke, and crunches the ice with his teeth.

‘Free as a bird, kid. I walked away clean and clear as soon as the investigation was over. But he always suspected I knew more than I told. I heard from Levi a while ago that Aldman had been given another chance at Op Som. A special unit, you know. And recently things have been… _not_ good.’

His expression is grim, and he stares hard at Arthur for a moment, as if weighing every word.

‘I got married, you know,’ he shakes his left hand absently and then taps his fourth finger on the rim of his glass, so that the gold band around it clacks like ice. ‘Bethany. She’s, god, she’s the best. And we’ve got three kids.’

As he roots out a photograph from his wallet, Arthur is thrown off balance by the sudden and disconcerting reminder that this was supposed to be him. A decorated ex-soldier with a wedding band on his left hand and photos of his kids tucked in next to his legally obtained credit card and his hard earned dollars.

The photograph is mucky with the grease of being held and worn out over and over again, until the colour is almost dull. There’s a woman with golden brown hair, wild in a fast breeze, half covering a grinning face, her mouth red and her cheeks flushed. She’s holding a fat, squirming baby boy in her arms, who is open mouthed and smiling a toothless, joyful smile as he is prodded by a little girl with Mike’s dark hair, and a boy no older than five is reaching towards the camera, oblivious to his siblings.

‘Oliver, Lucy and Walter,’ Mike points at the children in succession, his finger lingering over the baby. ‘Walt was only born ten months ago.’

Mike’s sadness itches at Arthur. There is a history between them that extends his patience for Mike tenfold, but as the martini in his glass is disappearing more quickly than it should, that isn’t saying much at all.

‘How not good?’ he presses.

Mike drinks, long and thirsty.

‘Bethan left three weeks ago. Went to stay with her sister, took the kids,’ he replies as he wipes his top lip with the back of his hand. Mike squirms, and his empty glass hits the bar too hard.

Arthur drains his martini.

‘What happened?’

‘I hit her.’

Arthur inspects the undersized olive in his glass. He traces his finger over its sickly green skin, and waits. It was Mike, he realises with a churning sensation, who taught him to wait.

‘I’m losing it, Hewitt,’ Mike says. He rubs his thighs with his palms, and Arthur can feel an anxiety in the older man that he had never known before. ‘My brain’s turning to mush. Sometimes I remember things that aren’t true. That _can’t_ be true. And I keep forgetting – I’m forgetting – _everything_. I can’t remember the day Lucy was born. I was there, Hewitt. I was holding Beth’s hand, I sang to her, I cried when I heard Lucy crying. I know it. We both said _Lucy_ at the exact same time. But I can’t _remember_ it. It’s like someone stole the memory.’

Arthur watches silently. He knows he owes a lot to Mike Everett, and even before the man saved his life and his sanity, he had a lot of respect for him, more than he did most of his superior officers.

He has never seen Mike tremble.

‘You think the army are involved?’ he asks slowly. ‘You’re telling me that Aldman broke into your mind to steal memories of your daughter’s birth –’

‘ _No_ , for god’s sake, that’s obviously not what I’m saying.’

‘Everett –’

‘Aldman knew I helped you escape, Hewitt. You, and McKay, and Sandaros, and the prisoners. He _knew_. And I think he wanted to – I don’t know, find something. Steal something. Do something. Maybe put something there.’

‘You think Aldman _incepted_ you?’ Arthur scoffs.

Mike shifts in his seat, and leans close enough for Arthur to smell the rum on his breath.

‘I think the army has put him in charge of his own unit, and I think he has some serious problems with stones being left unturned, and I think he has no qualms about breaking the rules.’

As he speaks, Arthur remembers heat, wet equatorial heat, and the liminal terror of a dream crumbling as the dreamer’s heart stutters to a stop, and three hours hiding in the cold dark with food and snakes for company. He remembers a twelve second phone call, and his first dusty taste of freedom.

Arthur could walk away right now. He could get up and walk away and Mike would not follow, he knows that for sure. But how long before they catch up with him, if Mike is right?

Arthur has been running his whole life.

Sometimes he gets tired.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Get in there, and find what he did,’ Mike replies instantly, has perhaps practised the sentence over and over while he waited for Arthur to arrive. He taps his temple as he says it, and his eyes are wild.

‘I haven’t got one with me,’ he says firmly.

‘No, I know,’ Mike nods, desperately eager. ‘Just, as soon as possible. It doesn’t even have to be here, if you want. It doesn’t even have to be stateside. I’ll do anything, go anywhere.’

‘If the army has tagged you, they’re going to object to you jetting out of the country.’

A faint smile wavers on Mike’s face, and though his eyes are wet and the knuckles of his hands are bone white, he knows now that Arthur is going to agree to it.

‘But that wouldn’t stop you, would it?’ he asks. Arthur would like to remind the man that his life is in meltdown, and he has no please to sound like he’s _teasing_ Arthur. But he doesn’t, because Mike is right. There is very little that can stop Arthur these days.

‘If I do this,’ he says after a moment’s deliberation, ‘I can’t do it alone. I’ll have to bring someone with me.’

‘Who?’

‘Another guy, an extractor. He’s not here; I’ll need to go see him. I’ll call you in four days, and we’ll arrange a second meet.’

‘And then you’ll go under,’ Mike says.

Arthur nods.

‘Then we’ll go under.’

‘Thank you, Hewitt,’ Mike sighs, and some of the strain melts from his face, leaving him only exhausted.

‘And you need to call me Arthur, from now on.’

Mike’s eyebrows shift, as if he had forgotten briefly that Arthur is not the man he first met in Cairo, bright eyed and driven by something nobler than this grim underworld he has become so deeply ingrained in.

‘Arthur,’ Mike says slowly, as if to test it on his tongue. ‘Very well then. _Arthur_. Thank you.’

He still looks relieved, and almost boyishly hopeful. Arthur calls over the bartender, orders a martini and a rum and coke, and pretends to smile, the way _Hewitt_ used to.

.

.

.

 _Paris_ _; 18 th October 2012_

Ariadne had not known as she boarded the Air France flight from Toronto Pearson to Paris Charles De Gaulle for the first time at the tender age of eighteen what exactly the City of Lights would come to mean to her. Charmed by its beauty and delighted with its soul, she could not have known how deeply her roots would sink into the city’s core.

She sits on a bench, wearing a red cardigan that matches her shoes, dappled by the sunlight through the trees of the Tuileries Garden.

This is the park where she sat day in and day out come rain or shine in her first year. This is where Claudia sat with her on the grass and taught her French – she had laughed gently, and rewarded Ariadne’s efforts with pastries and lemonade, and had not judged her accent too harshly.

This is where she had walked with Lucas Deron, hand in hand, shaking off the last of the dust Canada’s mark had left on her. This is where she had walked to shake off the searing, stabbing memory of Mallorie Cobb’s vengeful shade two years ago, the blade in her gut, Cobb’s harsh cry of _Mal!_ before she had woken violently to Arthur’s careful hands.

This is where she comes to remember a rainy city, a classy hotel, the biting snow, the thrill of her first job.

She has come here now to discuss another job.

But she is nervous, the way she hasn’t been in two years, despite the cool leaves and the warm sun and the indefinable hum of Paris, because this is the first time she is meeting a stranger.

Recommended through Yusuf, to be sure, but a stranger nonetheless.

This time it won’t be Arthur, suited and smart, his expression schooled into stern professionalism as though he isn’t at all pleased to see her. And it won’t be Eames, strolling as if time is his generous friend, linen-clad and bearing chocolate ice creams to eat as they walk.

The stranger’s name is Farrim, and she meets none of Ariadne’s expectations.

‘Ariadne,’ she says as she approaches, taking a seat on the bench beside her without extending her hand to shake.

‘Farrim,’ Ariadne replies, and settles for an awkward nod of the head when it’s clear a handshake isn’t going to be offered.

‘I don’t want to keep you long,’ Farrim says brusquely. Her voice is deep, her figure soft and broad, and her thick dark hair has been pulled tight out of a sharp, olive skinned face.

‘What’s the job?’

Farrim seems to approve of her immediacy. She does not smile, but her harsh eyes soften slightly.

‘One month in Debrecen. I need two levels. You will need to come into the field and sit in on the first level. The client is an heiress, we’ll be extracting from her mother. Any questions?’

Ariadne felt something quiver in her torso, like panic or excitement. It’s been a while since she could tell the difference.

‘What does she want to know?’

‘That’s only for the team to know,’ Farrim replies sternly. ‘Here’s my number. Call me by midnight with your answer.’

The small white card has a telephone number written in red ballpoint. Ariadne runs her thumb over the corner of it. She’s still inspecting the carefully crafted handwriting, every number a different shape of scrawl, when she feels Farrim stand up with the same swiftness as she arrived.

‘I hope you say yes,’ the woman says. Ariadne looks up at her, her skin shining in the sunlight and her mouth twisted. ‘Yusuf speaks very highly of you.’

It doesn’t settle well with Ariadne, the lingering look Farrim gives her before she leaves.

Ariadne closes her eyes, folds the card into her palm. Paris whispers, and warms.

.

.

.

  _Wroclaw_ _; 18 th October 2012_

Eames is often taken for a fool upon first meeting. It’s something about the long silences and the vacant stares, or the chattering nonsense, or the way he still mixes up _their_ and _they’re_ in his notes. It’s something about the way he flirts with people and the way he lets things slip.

(Eames never lets things slip. There are currently four people in the world who believe they have successfully conned Eames out of several hundred thousand of any given currency at any given time. They’re all wrong.)

But this is not the first time Eames has met Zumani. It is the fifth time. And yet it still seems Zumani has every intention of screwing him over, as if he isn’t aware that Eames has sold out three jobs in the last five years because his employers thought they could pull the rug out from under his feet.

Eames is a survivor (cockroach, he’s heard before, but he’s always been immune to bullies, was one himself in school) and though it generally works to his advantage, he _really_ hates to be underestimated. It’s happened plenty of times before. His physics professor at school, his grandfather, the vice president of Webb & Forster’s Ltd, the US military, Arthur, the dealers at the Vegas Bellagio; all fools, of course.

And Zumani is another fool, apparently.

Eames watches him oversee the final layout of the aquarium where they will take their mark once they’re under.

The architect, Dylan, is nervous, and this is the biggest clue of all. Eames has worked with him enough times for Dylan to know better.

The point man, Sullivan, is yet to arrive.

And Eames just watches, bitter fury boiling through him like nausea, because this job is a lot of money, and he’s fighting off a cold brought on by four days of constant tailing of the mark’s brother in the freezing rain, and he can’t really afford to cut and run, not after arguing with Mendes and the cock up of Singapore.

His reputation as the best is only going to get him so far.

Zumani pats Dylan kindly on the back and praises his work. Eames fingers the nub of the pen he’s been almost splintering for the past twenty minutes.

‘Problem, Eames?’ Zumani asks.

They’re in an office building, the abandoned desks cleared and refilled with notes and photos and Styrofoam models. Eames wonders how many desks he could hurdle before Zumani manages to pull the gun badly concealed in his coat.

Probably not enough to risk it.

‘Not that I know of, Zumani,’ he replies pleasantly. His smile is close-lipped and tight.

He might not enjoy being thrown under the bus, but Eames cannot deny the thrill of cat and mouse that accompanies it.

‘Test run when Sullivan returns,’ is all Zumani says, warily eyeing Eames’ smile.

There’s a sulky, downwards pull to Zumani’s face that deepens when he frowns. When he turns to leave Eames stands up, weaves through the desks, ignores Dylan’s stare, and he knows Zumani’s heard him follow but the man just keeps walking. Out of the office, into the cold grey staircase with the broken lights. He texts with one hand, so that the other can remain deep in his pocket.

The stairs are irritatingly shallow, and when Zumani stops abruptly halfway down the third flight Eames’ feet stutter, too. He stares at the back of Zumani’s dark, shaved head.

‘Don’t do this, Eames.’

Eames would have liked it to be a plea, but even distorted by the ringing air around them it is undeniably an order. There are very few people from whom Eames has ever willingly taken orders.

‘You’re a fool, Zumani,’ Eames says quietly. He takes another step down, feels the weight of the air in the under lit stairwell. Two more flights before the ground floor, a west facing exit, his hotel sixteen minutes away at a walk, the airport two miles out, the largest train station almost as far away.

Eames has never been to Wroclaw before, which is annoying because he has a horrible feeling he won’t be coming back for a while, now.

He can see the shift of Zumani readying his fingers over the handgun in his pocket. Eames curls his fingers readily.

He waits for another warning, for Zumani to turn, for a long hard chase down the stairs. Nothing happens.

The blinding blow that comes to the back of his head is embarrassingly unexpected. Eames feels his breath catch in his throat as his legs give out beneath him, and the sharp crack of his hand crumpling beneath him is dull and sickening.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he chokes. He scrambles to get a hold on the stair rail but the toe of a scrubbed leather shoe smacks him behind the ear, and everything fades in a sharp gasp of white.

 


	2. TWO

I wait at dusk to go alone without a light to the unknown, I want this night inside of me.

I want to feel, I want this speeding, I want that speeding.

My blood beats black tonight, my blood beats black tonight.

No need for comfort, no need for light, I am hunting for secrets tonight.

_Bloodbeat – Patrick Wolf_

**(In which compromise is a one way street.)**

_Los Angeles_ _; 26 th October 2012_

Sometimes Dom dreams of Mallorie. They are blissful, devastatingly natural dreams. He’s been under a handful of times since inception, but his children have taken over his life so completely, so wondrously, he hasn’t had much time to miss it.

He’s had plenty of time to miss Mal, of course. Phillipa is rapidly mastering the French her mother should have taught her, but instead it’s under the careful if sporadic tutelage of her grandmother; James’ eyes are big and round and twilit blue.

Mal is still here, he reminds himself in the whispery sleepless nights when he sits on the back porch with the stars and the crickets for solemn company, shivering around his coffee cup.

It’s on one such night that his reverie of black, black hair and soft, rosy skin and choking, retching grief is interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He hadn’t even realised he’d brought it outside with him, but he pulls it out of his jacket pocket with thick fingers, clumsy from the cold, all the same.

The number is unfamiliar, and despite two clean years of absolutely no strangers knocking on his door he pauses before answering warily, the lines of his muscles tightening.

‘Hello?’ he says quietly. The empty gloom of the garden seems to swallow his voice.

‘ _Cobb_ ,’ a curt voice replies, and Dom almost laughs at himself.

‘Arthur,’ he sighs with none too little relief. Then his mouth twitches, half a smile and half a frown. ‘What can I do for you at – four forty-two in the morning?’

He doesn’t mean to angle for sympathy, but even if he had been it seems he’d have been disappointed.

‘ _I’m almost at your house. Don’t shoot me._ ’

The call ends abruptly, and Dom stuffs the phone back in his pocket as he leaves his cup on the porch floor and returns inside the muffled dark of the house.

Arthur hadn’t been lying.

By the time Dom reaches the front hall Arthur is inside.

Reminding himself to upgrade his security system to Arthur-proof (if such a thing exists, which he highly doubts) Dom shakes the younger man’s hand firmly. His skin is dry and cold.

‘I’ll get you some coffee,’ Dom says in defeat, leading the way to the kitchen to make a start on a fresh pot.

While he waits, Arthur leans against the dishwasher with an ease of familiarity that makes Dom’s heart ache. He doesn’t want to think about how many times Arthur has leaned against that dishwasher, visiting during his own absence.

Something of his irritation much have shown in his face, because Arthur startles upright, moves further into the kitchen.

‘Sugar? Arthur asks. Dom gestures to the cupboard above the toaster and turns away to hide his grimace. For a man of such dangerous delicacy in dreams, Arthur really lacks the art of subtlety sometimes.

Equipped finally with scalding coffee in mugs painted by the Cobb children, they sit together on the porch as if it were a tradition. As if they were good, old friends for whom each others’ company was a pleasurable pastime. As if Arthur hadn’t dropped completely off the radar seven months ago, dead for all Dom knew.

Unwilling to be the one to open that can of worms, Dom looks his old partner over silently. There are dark shadows under his eyes and his suit looks a little worn, but there’s no apparent damage that a long, arduous flight can’t explain. Arthur returns his appraisal with scrutiny, but whether or not he’s passed the test Dom can’t tell because Arthur merely sips his coffee, offering the smiling sunshine face painted on his cup by an enthusiastic six year old a small, tender smile of his own.

Some of his earlier resentment loosens in Dom’s chest. He can’t begrudge a man who has only ever loved his kids as they needed him to.

‘I need a favour,’ Arthur announces after a long five minutes of peaceful, watchful silence has passed. ‘I wouldn’t ask unless I had no choice.’

Dom is grateful rather than offended. He raises his eyebrows and sips his coffee, his foot nudging against the cold cup he’d left on the floor.

‘What’s the job?’ he asks coolly, trying to sound aloof. Trying and failing, judging by the look Arthur throws him.

‘An old military buddy of mine. Reckons someone’s been rooting around in his head.’

‘Army extraction?’ Dom asks, and this time he doesn’t attempt to mask his intrigue.

‘Don’t know,’ Arthur says grimly over the rim of his cup. They’re not words he’s spoken often, and they sound ugly and strangled coming out of his mouth.

‘Army inception?’ Dom scoffs teasingly, choosing to roll his eyes over looking too closely at the lines of the man’s concern.

‘Don’t know,’ Arthur says again.

He takes a gulp of coffee as he waits for the sly grin to slide off Dom’s face. When it does he shifts in his seat and runs a hand, hot from clenching his mug so tightly, over his left eye.

The implication of Arthur’s words sinks a heavy, sickening weight in Dom’s gut. He can feel his spine prickling, but Arthur’s expression doesn’t change.

‘Rooting through military minds,’ Dom says warily. ‘You don’t need me. You need Eames.’

For some reason Arthur smirks at this.

‘I already tried,’ he says wryly. ‘Tracked him to Lisbon. He’s a mess. Zumani sold him out to a couple of bounty hunters last week.’

‘He alright?’ Dom asks, surprised. He’s never considered himself particularly close to the forger, but Eames is a good ally, and has proven himself surprisingly loyal on more than one occasion.

Dom’s never asked, but he also doesn’t think it’s professional interest alone that’s led Arthur to keep tabs on the forger all the years Dom has known them.

‘Pretty beat up. Didn’t stop him swindling fifteen grand out of me before saying no.’

Arthur scowls at Dom’s raised eyebrows. ‘Backgammon,’ he adds reluctantly.

‘I thought that was your game?’ Dom asks.

‘Well apparently he’s been practising,’ Arthur mutters.

Dom barks a soft laugh, and some of the tension stretched tight between them snaps. Breathing suddenly seems a lot earlier. Beneath the tired shadows, Dom can see Arthur really is alright. Mostly, at least.

‘Do you really think the army is capable of inception?’ Dom asks. Arthur furrows his brow, and Dom recalls being informed by the same man that not even _they_ were capable of it, once upon a time.

‘If they’ve tried, apparently not. Otherwise Everett wouldn’t have called me,’ he points out. ‘I don’t necessarily think it was inception they were after. Just trying to mess around inside his head. If they were there at all.’

Dom can tell Arthur’s trying to keep the tone light, and he knows from experience this is never a good sign. For all the danger Dom knows can be done upon the mind by mistake – and isn’t that a long drawn knife twisting his sternum sideways – he knows how much infinitely worse it can be when inflicted with skilled intent.

Arthur is watching him, scrutinising him carefully and just a little too intrusively.

‘I’m not asking you to step on anyone’s toes,’ he says carefully when still Dom doesn’t reply. ‘It’s all legal. We go under at the request of the mark, look for signs of damage, fix it if we can. If anything more is needed I can get help elsewhere.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Dom says with a slight grin. ‘Gonna try your hand at chess against Eames, next time?’

Arthur narrows his eyes, but there’s no accusation to it, and no bite in his voice when he retorts, ‘Domesticity has changed you, Mr Cobb.’

Dom smiles a little more graciously this time, and raises his coffee cup in cheers. The grey light of dawn is slowly creeping into the horizon, and somewhere close a bird laments the night.

‘I should hope so, Arthur,’ he nods.

They share a more companionable silence. Dom thinks of Mallorie again, but this time it’s gentler. The memory is older, their faces younger; her wild laughter as she argues with their new friend Arthur in rapid French that her husband can’t quite follow.

He wonders vaguely, without much hope, if this is why Eames had said no to Arthur, just to send him back to Dom.

He’s never known Eames to be particularly selfless (never known him to be selfless at all, actually, and even less self-sacrificing) but he had sounded genuinely apologetic when Dom had called asking of Arthur’s whereabouts three months ago. If this is an apology, Dom will take it with both hands; if it isn’t, well, he at least owes the Englishman a beer next time they cross paths.

‘Where’ve you been, Arthur?’ Dom asks. He cringes, wondering if he sounds needy, but at the pink flush of Arthur’s ears realises he’d used the scolding parent voice reserved for Phillipa’s petulance and James’ tantrums.

‘Busy,’ Arthur replies indignantly. ‘Underground.’

‘I was looking for you,’ Dom says, not unkindly, because Arthur is a big boy with scars Dom’s sure he’ll never know about. Besides, he’s been involved in dreamshare almost as long as Dom has, and he was pulling jobs while Dom was still in research labs.

Still, when Arthur says ‘ _I know_ ’ oh so casually, Dom isn’t sure whether to feel jaded or pleased.

Maybe he’ll buy Eames a crate of beers and have done with it.

‘When are we doing this?’ he asks instead of pushing, much to Arthur’s visible relief.

‘Next week. If you can take three days, to be safe. We’ll fly to Portland on Tuesday morning.’

‘Portland?’ Dom asks, and Arthur smiles at his disdain.

‘Everett has family there. Just in case he’s being tracked. Bring a jacket.’

They lapse into a smiling, lasting silence that is only broken when a pair of padding, pink bare feet reach the back door, and bleary blue eyes blink up at the them and a little mouth yawns, ‘ _Daddy, I – Uncle Arthur!_ ’

When James lunges into Arthur’s arms and Arthur barely catches him, slopping lukewarm coffee onto the porch floor and laughing, Dom smiles and is only grateful.

.

.

.

_Lisbon_ _; 28 th October 2012_

It’s almost three in the morning. Eames is awake.

The worst of the damage is starting to fade, but everything aches beneath the surface. Arthur had promised him that his cheekbone wasn’t broken when he checked it last week, but Eames isn’t entirely convinced. It’s been ten days but his face still feels like it’s on fire, and sometimes he wouldn’t put it past Arthur to let him suffer out a broken bone untreated.

At the thought of Arthur, Eames lifts his glass and takes another sip of whisky. Today’s going to be a complete waster if he drinks much more so early, but it softens the sharp pain to a dull throb, and less than a fortnight ago he escaped the capture of two very greedy mercenaries. He’s entitled to a little moping.

He thinks absently about calling Arthur, and the dial tone is ringing in his ear before he can wonder whether it’s a good idea, or if Arthur’s still going to be feeling grumpy about the fifteen grand.

‘ _Thought you weren’t talking to me anymore_ ,’ Arthur says when he finally picks up. He doesn’t sound as if he’s just been woken up by the call, which is a shame because Eames has always been happy to invest time and effort into making Arthur’s life difficult.

‘Aren’t I? Why ever not, darling?’ he says between sips.

‘ _Are you drinking? You’d better not still be on the vicodin. You’re a fucking asshole._ ’

‘Is this a bad time?’ Eames asks before the tirade can begin. ‘I can call back later if you like.’

He won’t.

‘ _No, it’s not. I needed to talk to you._ ’

‘Oh?’ Eames smiles into the phone, and he can see Arthur’s face in that moment, how he’s trying not to smile because he wants to be annoyed, but can’t quite muster it in himself because he’s working and because he’s tired. ‘Is this about your Captain friend? I thought I’d made my disinterest in his dilemma quite clear, Arthur.’

‘ _You have_ ,’ Arthur replies. ‘ _But – just – do you remember Nairobi?_ ’

‘Vividly,’ Eames drawls.

‘ _I mean Everett. He helped us. He got us out._ ’

Eames quells the sudden urge to put the phone down; he’s a well tuned instrument in Arthur’s hands by now, however much he dislikes it.

‘If you’re implying I _owe_ your little Captain friend some slack, _darling_ , I’m afraid we’ll just have to agree to disagree.’

‘ _Have you heard anything at your end? Military. Undercover. Any of it?_ ’

‘Not a whisper,’ Eames replies.

It’s the truth. He might have no interest in actively helping, but even in a haze of painkillers last week he’d known to put out some feelers. There was nothing to be found, though.

‘Do you really think your government would sanction active mind meddling on one of its own?’ Eames scoffs when it becomes clear Arthur’s waiting for more.

‘ _Aldman’s the one in charge. If anyone is capable of getting around government permits, it’s him._ ’

Eames bristles.

‘Which is exactly why I have no interest in your little game of cat and mouse, darling. Will that be all?’

It’s something of a lie. There are a thousand reasons Eames doesn’t want in on this job, and while Aldman is high up on the list, he’s far from being the only one.

‘ _Where would you start, if you were going to do this?_ ’

For a moment Eames considers the possibility that Arthur is playing him. It doesn’t last, but for some reason he’s hurt that he realises it’s not an _im_ possibility.

‘You’re clever boy, Artie,’ he says instead. ‘Figure it out yourself.’

‘ _Eames._ ’

He sees Arthur’s face again. Determined, this time. Not quite angry, more than frustrated.

‘Approach it like a standard extraction; try to draw out his militarisation. If the army’s tampered with anything, it’ll probably be that. Either they’ll leave a wide gap for you to walk clean through, or it won’t even be there at all. Of course, it could all be fine, and your Captain’s just cracking up of his own accord. Which I must say sounds far more likely – ’

‘ _Yes, thank you for your input, Mr Eames,_ ’ Arthur cuts him off cleanly, and then pretends not to have heard it. ‘ _One more thing._ ’

‘You’re not getting your money back,’ Eames snaps, and a smile twitches at his lips despite the pain that twinges in his cheekbones.

Arthur laughs softly, just audible over the gentle buzz of the line.

‘ _Mr Eames_ ,’ he scoffs. ‘ _As far as I’m concerned that’s the first time you’ve won on even ground. You are welcome to it_.’

‘Good,’ Eames huffs. ‘Because I’ll need it to find a new place. I hate moving base camp, you know. You’re a bloody nuisance.’

‘ _Stop whining. You’re not going to leave Lisbon and we both know it._ ’

This time Eames can see the smile, all there unhindered by embarrassment or reluctance. He wants to reach out and touch it. He wants to trace the lines of Arthur’s smile and remember it all over again. Right now, in the dark stars of Portugal with a bruised, aching body and too much whisky in his gut, Los Angeles feels about as close at the sun.

‘Call me if you run into trouble,’ he says quietly.

‘ _You’re a little banged up to be playing the white knight, Eames._ ’

‘I’d give it a bloody good go, though,’ Eames replies.

Their breaths sound as if they might have found a common rhythm, because the silence is soothing, longing.

Eames wishes Arthur had stayed in Lisbon longer, last week. He wishes he’d been more lucid, and less achy, and in a better temper. He wishes he hadn’t snubbed Arthur’s unexpectedly tender care out of spite, and he wishes, briefly, he’d taken the job, rather than send Arthur skipping off to Dominick bloody Cobb.

He definitely wishes Arthur hadn’t left in the middle of the night without a word, like some unwelcome phantom breezing through.

‘ _If the militarisation is still intact?_ ’ Arthur says eventually, breaking the spell of silence, and Eames blushes, suddenly glad Arthur isn’t here. His jaw hurts; he takes another sip of whisky. There are thunderclouds rippling in his head, up his spine and through his skull. It’s tempered by the alcohol, slowly blinding him.

‘I’ll give Yusuf a call. Ask him to send something sentimental, express.’

‘ _Thank you, Eames_.’

There are a lot of possible answers to this, but most of them might involve dislodging the horrible lump that’s suddenly blocking his throat, and who knows what words might spill out of his mouth if that happens?

Eames puts down the phone instead.

It’s still dark, and he drains the last of his drink before laying his head down on the table where he sits. He waits for the swaying drunkenness to turn into a swirling hangover, and listens for Lisbon to start waking up.

.

.

.

_Debrecen_ _; 29 th October 2012_

There are two architects.

Ariadne is fairly certain she had kept the surprise from glancing off her polite smile like light on water, but there seems little secret to her subsequent discomfort.

The job is two levels, and it’s Ariadne’s job to design the first layer and act as babysitter while the others go on. At first she’s offended by this thin, wiry man called Wick, who smiles pleasantly at her and asks how long she’s been in the business.

But when she approaches Farrim, the extractor has no time for her questions.

‘It has nothing to do with age, Ariadne,’ Farrim says brusquely as she peruses the mark’s itinerary laid out for her by their point man, who is no Arthur but has nevertheless proven himself to be efficient and quietly engaging. ‘I don’t care if Dom Cobb had you building _five_ levels in one go. I never work with less than one architect per layer.’

A week has passed and while a month suddenly seems like all the time in the world, having only one level to worry about, Ariadne is feeling twitchy.

She’s building a train station; Debrecen Station as it was twenty years ago, when the mark first came to Hungary – with a few additions of her own, of course. It’s intricate, fiddly work, and Ariadne has never before appreciated the complexities involved in manoeuvring and negotiating train lines.

‘You know the laws of the dream make that redundant,’ Wick had said the first and only time he peered over her shoulder. ‘You’re the architect and the dreamer. If you don’t want the trains to collide, they won’t.’

At the time it had been simply annoying, but for the rest of the day as she mulled it over in her head it felt more and more accusing, as if he was doubting her very ability to maintain the dream at all, never mind build it from scratch.

‘I prefer to keep all the details in check,’ Ariadne had replied sweetly, instead of what she actually wanted to do – not so much because it would be unbecoming of a lady to jab her pencil into Wick’s balls as because Farrim was only a few metres away.

Ever since, each teammate has kept to themselves, with Farrim flitting from one to the other, taking notes as she goes.

Now, over a quarter of the way through the job, Ariadne is feeling positively lonely. She packs up early and leaves without  a word.

Outside it’s raining lightly; cool and breezy and she keeps her hood down to let the hot frustration of the day rise up out of her collar.

It’s not until she’s sitting on a bench in the grounds of the university, glaring at the trees that she realises she isn’t alone.

Sinclair, the point man who isn’t quite Arthur, walks at a leisurely pace and appears to almost keep walking before sitting next to her. Whether this is for her or for the few stragglers also enjoying the mildew quiet and clouds around them, she isn’t sure.

Ariadne has already decided she likes Sinclair well enough.

He’s thus far been cordial and useful. He’s also kept his nose out of her designs, which in light of Wick’s unwarranted comments has been a godsend.

‘You’ve been pretty sheltered, haven’t you?’ Sinclair asks. Ariadne shifts, and a prickle of resentment blossoms through her like poison ivy. ‘I mean,’ he continues before she can retort. ‘You’ve stuck to the people you know. Arthur, right? I know Cobb’s out.’

Still bristling, Ariadne settles her raised hackles a little. It’s true, this is the first time she’s not working with anyone from the Fischer Job. She’s never thought to worry if it’s showing, but she supposes she should feel reassured that they at least have a thorough point man.

‘Have you ever worked with either of them?’ Ariadne asks.

She looks to her left, tugging at the collar of her coat. Sinclair’s eyes are a burnt shade of orange, or maybe it’s just the dull light of the air. He has an unmemorable face, which has probably only ever worked in his favour in this particular line of work.

‘Cobb yes,’ he replies after a pause, as if debating whether or not to tell her the truth. There are specks of rain clinging to his eyebrows. ‘Arthur no. He doesn’t like people stepping on his toes.’

Ariadne smiles at that. She’d thought Sinclair was English, but hearing him speak at leisure she thinks not. There’s something else in his voice, a lilt. It’s soothing.

‘When you get used to a method, it’s hard to break the routine.’ Sinclair’s soothing voice is innocent and understanding.

‘Do you and Farrim always work together?’

‘Jesus, no,’ Sinclair scoffs. ‘She has her list of names. She likes to mix and match every time. That’s her routine.’

Ariadne doesn’t like the sound of routine. She thinks of Cobb and Arthur, chasing mean ghosts and being chased by meaner ones for two years.

At least, that’s what she’s always assumed. She can’t remember if she’s ever actually asked –

‘You’ve never worked with another architect, have you?’

Sinclair’s gentle lilt breaks her thread, and she blinks. The chill is starting to creep its clammy fingers into her jacket, but the rain is still kind on her scalp.

‘No,’ she says, wincing when it comes out burdened with resentment. ‘It’s a complete waste.’

Sinclair rubs the stubbled hinge of his jaw. He’s not wearing a coat, but he doesn’t seem to even notice the breeze flickering through his shirt and hair.

‘Well, it goes in circles,’ he shrugs. ‘Every architect’s worlds that they build have a tone. Like an artist’s work, or the, the _feel_ of a person, you know? Even if they build radically different things on two separate levels, they will both have a similar feel.

‘Two architects building two different tones. It’s dangerous, because it heightens the risk of the mark noticing the unreal nature of the dream. But it also disorientates them.

‘Militarisation is that tiny bit slower as it readjusts, and secrets are less closely guarded while the subconscious realigns its axis to suit the new world. It’s subtle, there’s barely enough change to have enough of an effect for most people. But it works for Farrim.’

This might be what Sinclair sounds like when he admires someone; Ariadne doesn’t think she’s known him long enough to tell, yet. She closes her eyes, feels the wet rain in her mascara stick her lashes together. She bundles her arms across her chest and tries to recall what it feels like inside the dreams she builds.

She remembers the feel of Cobb’s subconscious, the one and only time she ventured into it uninvited.

She wonders briefly if it’s at all what Eames tried to explain to her when she asked about forging. He hadn’t patronised her, but he made it perfectly clear he thought her incapable of ever mastering the forge.

‘You’re too clever for it, pet,’ he’d said. ‘Too much of a thinker. You want explanations.’

She had wondered if Eames always downplayed his intelligence. _Probably_ , she’d thought at the time, and still does to this day.

‘I suppose,’ she sighs out loud, more to herself than to Sinclair but the man chuffs a laugh anyway.

‘You know you’re the first totally new person Farrim’s worked with in years? I thought she’d given up adding to her list ages ago.’

Ariadne smiles ruefully, annoyed at the pleasure flushing in her extremities at his words. She doesn’t doubt his sincerity, but she knows he’s only saying it out loud to appeal to her vanity.

It’s working, if only because it’s been such a hard day, she assures herself.

.

.

.

_Lisbon_

When it rings for the sixth time, Eames picks up the phone and cradles it between his ear and his shoulder. It presses against a bruise, but it’s barely noticeable.

‘I ‘usy,’ he mumbles through the two paintbrushes clamped between his teeth.

_‘Are you having sex? You sound muffled. Why are you muffled?’_

Eames grins despite himself, almost losing one of the brushes.

‘‘usu’!’ he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Taking both the brushes into his right hand while the left continues stroking lines of sunshine yellow with the pads of his fingertips, he corrects, ‘How are you? Did you send our Arthur his little package?’

‘ _Shut up, you sod_ ,’ Yusuf replies, sounding disgruntled. ‘ _What are you doing?_ ’

‘Creating a masterpiece unworthy of your mortal eyes, dear. What do you want?’

Eames licks his lips and can taste acrylic. The weather is unexpectedly glorious, and all the doors and windows are open. Suburban Lisbon is a hum of golden autumn, pouring into the little house like melting butter.

‘ _Why aren’t you with Arthur in the States?’_ Yusuf asks.

‘Because I’m busy in Lisbon recovering from grievous trauma. I was kidnapped, you know,’ Eames sniffs.

His canvas, propped up on the kitchen table against a stacked pile of books, glistens wetly in the hot, clear sunshine. His gin and tonic sparkles, the glass splattered with multicoloured hand smudges, and he considers putting another slice of lemon in it.

That would involve washing his hands, though, if he was going to be sensible about it.

‘ _Yes, yes. Poor Eames played with fire and got burned. Boo bloody hoo. Why aren’t you in the States? Arthur told me about the job. It’s right up your street.’_

‘Arthur _called_ you?’ Eames hissed. What a traitor.

His face feels damp, and he can’t tell if it’s sweat or paint but he doesn’t really care. The heady distraction of gin and painting has done a borderline satisfactory job of keeping his feet firmly planted in Portugal, but it’s been a close call. The last thing he needs is Yusuf’s admonishment.

He doesn’t hang up, though.

‘Yusuf, really,’ he says instead. ‘I just had a close enough call thanks to Zumani. I’m not walking straight into the US military’s open arms.’

‘ _Eames, boy,_ ’ Yusuf says with a sigh, and Eames sneers through the phone. ‘ _You’re a dangerous man to be sure, but you’re not exactly the FBI’s most wanted._ ’

Rationally, Eames knows this shouldn’t offend him.

It sort of does, though.

‘Well let’s see what we can do about that then,’ he sniffs. ‘Have you got anything lined up for me?’

‘ _I’m not your bloody agent, Eames,_ ’ Yusuf chuckles. ‘ _Not a thing. I think Tupolski’s getting a team together for something in December. Think your_ grievous _PTSD will have subdued itself by then?’_

‘Tupolski’s a walking suppository,’ Eames dismisses. ‘What’s the job?’

‘ _Something political I think._ ’

‘Scandalous?’ Eames grins. He smears a dollop of ebony over the edge line of his left thumb and starts dabbing it on the wet paint.

‘ _I’m not your agent,_ ’ Yusuf says again. ‘ _And you’re not Clark Gable. You should be helping Arthur and his friend. You owe him._ ’

Eames squeezes his phone, his wet, paint covered fingers slipping over its edges. Anger flares sharp and unexpected in his chest, and he barks at Yusuf as if burned. ‘That _cunt_ –’

‘ _I meant Arthur, you sod,_ ’ Yusuf drawls, unaffected by Eames’ sudden fury. ‘ _And one more thing?_ ’

‘What?’ Eames snaps.

There are a lot of things Eames would tell Yusuf he can do with his one more thing, if not for the man’s role as chief supplier of Eames’ Somnacin. As it is, he listens, albeit with twitching fingers. He presses too hard against the canvas with his thumb and hisses through his teeth.

‘ _I’ve had three people in the past four months asking around about Olivier._ ’

Grumbling at the smudge of black ruining his Lisbon cityscape, Eames pauses. The anger in his chest steels into something silvery, icy.

‘And?’ he says quietly, darkly.

‘ _She hasn’t been seen in a long time, Eames,_ ’ Yusuf says.

The teasing has vanished from his voice, and Eames can feel the careful measuring of his words like needle pricks up his spine.

‘How long are we talking?’ he asks.

She’s been gone before, he tells the fluttering in his stomach, but the melting heat from outside feels stifling.

‘ _Seventh months, best I can count_.’

Eames’ hand leaves the canvas. He leans hard into the table, his fingers twitching as if scrabbling for a hold on the smooth surface of the wood.

‘Book me a long way round to Portland, will you?’ he says.

‘ _Portland_ _? Eames you’re –_ ’

‘Oregon, you twat. Not bloody Maine. Christ. Nothing too close to Poland, please. And not Singapore.’

_‘I expect_ –’

‘I’ll wire you the money when I get there,’ Eames snaps.

He _has_ got a spare fifteen grand floating around, after all.

He ends the call with a fierce stab of his thumb as he marches through the house.

His phone screen is a mess of colours, and there’s paint in the seam around the edges. He gives it a wipe with his sleeve and pockets it nonetheless. Stripping off his shirt and tossing it to the bathroom floor, he starts scrubbing the acrylic that has apparently managed to get _everywhere_ , including, apparently, the _small of his back_.

Cursing the day he ever picked up a paintbrush, he mutters at the scalding water, watching it drain dirty down the plughole through his hands.

He’s just about managed to get it out of his stubble when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_13.45 flight to Rome. Itinerary sent to Ivan Hodgins email. Interest rate 14%._

Eames smiles grimly, re-pocketing his phone and moving to the bedroom.

He thinks about texting Arthur, gets as far as typing it out – three kisses and all, just to imagine the scowl on his face – but decides against it.

Just in case, he tells himself, rooting through the back of his wardrobe until he finds a small bag full of cash and papers. Pulling out one of the four National Insurance cards, a matching credit card and passport, and a medical record for good measure, he throws them into a rucksack.

He thinks briefly about the unfinished cityscape lying neglected on his kitchen table.

Maybe he’ll post it to Ariadne, he considers, and then grins at the thought of her bewilderment when the package arrives.

_At least she’ll finish it right_.

 


	3. THREE

Father, where’s my gun? Now that the war has begun. Oh let me go it alone. I need no-one. I said I need no-one.

But oh god now here it comes and it’s too dark to aim this gun, clicking now faster faster faster once again I’m on the run.

And I hear you say, ‘Oh my stubborn son I know that you said you need no-one. Don’t you see danger danger danger headed to oblivion?’

_Oblivion – Patrick Wolf_

**(In which peace is the only worthy currency.)**

_Portland_ _; 30 th October 2012_

Once the surprise settles from a rearing beast to a pale fluttering in his stomach, Arthur knows he really should have expected nothing less.

The hotel room had showed no sign of a break in – not that there ever is with thieves like Eames, of course – and Arthur, careful Arthur, has tossed his bags onto the floor and his suit jacket over the hard backed desk chair by the time he notices broad shoulders and a sandy head poking out from beneath the bedcovers.

His gasp, incoherent, more air than words, at first does not seem to rouse the sleeping figure, but then –

‘Put your gun down, Arthur. I’m sleeping.’

Eames’ naked back doesn’t turn, and Arthur heaves a silent, scolding breath before removing his hand from his holster, scowling spitefully at the tan expanse of skin.

‘What changed your mind?’ he asks, unbuttoning his waistcoat slowly. The muscles in his shoulders are tight, and he’s supposed to be introducing Dom and Mike in a couple of hours. There’s fight in his gut and his fingers, but his head is too cloudy for an argument.

Eames tilts his head over his shoulder. He looks better than he did a week ago, when he was concussed and bloodied and spitting vengeance into the ice pack pressed over his face. The rings around his eyes might be little more than shadows of sleeplessness, now.

‘Can’t let you have all the fun,’ he replies.

His voice is thick and as bed warm as his pink cheeks.

_Liar_ , Arthur thinks, but if he calls Eames out on it then he might find out the real reason, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to know.

Instead he disappears into the bathroom, and he’s sweating out his shock in a steaming shower that’s patching his skin lobster pink by the time Eames’ footsteps pad slowly in after him.

There’s the knock of the toilet seat going down, followed by a sleepy groan as Eames sits, and Arthur is very grateful for the shower curtain to hide behind.

‘How’s Dominick?’ Eames asks pleasantly after a moment.

‘He’s fine.’

‘Up to the job?’

‘ _Eames_ ,’ Arthur says sternly. He can feel Eames’ predatory smirk.

‘ _Arthur_ ,’ he replies in kind, and Arthur almost ignores it, but when Eames doesn’t follow through with a threat of unspeakable damage to his tie collection, he wonders if maybe he _should_ know what changed Eames’ mind. It’s not as if it’s an everyday occurrence, after all.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur pokes his head around the bland, white shower curtain, shaking the wet hair out of his stinging eyes.

Eames, dressed in boxers and leaning his elbow on the sink, looks tired. He’s still wearing bandaging around his left ankle and his ribs look brittle and purple. But he’s smiling nonetheless. That tender, intrusive smile that makes Arthur want to put on three suits at once and move to rural Russia where he won’t be followed.

For a second it looks as if Eames is going to tell him something. Arthur huffs a sigh and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

The hesitation passes like a swift cloud.

‘You’ve got bubbles in your hair,’ Eames says.

Arthur flicks water at him and returns to the safe, steaming cocoon of his shower stall.

‘Arthur,’ Eames groans. ‘I don’t know _what’s_ gotten into you. You weren’t half so shy when you were –’

‘ _Go back to bed_ ,’ Arthur crows loudly over whatever fantasy Eames is about to entertain.

‘You don’t even know what I was going to say,’ Eames laughs lewdly. ‘I was –’

‘I don’t care. I was probably drunk. Go away. You look like shit.’

When Eames doesn’t reply, Arthur peers around the shower curtain again.

He’s still sitting on the closed toilet seat, drumming his fingers against his knee. His sly smile is gone.

‘What?’ Arthur asks. ‘What do you want?’

Eames twists his lips, and something disappears from his eyes in a lazy blink.

‘Nothing, Arthur,’ he smiles quietly. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

By the time Arthur leaves the bathroom, wet soap-free hair slicked back and a towel around his waist Eames is gone, the only remaining sign of his presence the crumpled sheets on the left side of the bed.

He sits on the covers, not sure if he’s imagining the warmth in them or not.

It’s hardly the first time Eames has broken into his hotel room, nor is it the first time he’s snuck out while Arthur’s in the shower.

Picking up his phone, he calls Cobb as he starts remaking the bed.

‘Slight change of plan,’ he says before Cobb can speak. ‘Meet me at the hotel bar in half an hour.’

‘ _What’s wrong_?’

‘We have company,’ Arthur says.

.

.

_Mombasa_

The shop’s never exactly been busy, per say, but when eleven o’clock in the evening rolls around – and the big, red sun has long bled pink and orange into the horizon, leaving a sandy lull of the surrounding desert in the cradle of night – and still Yusuf has seen not a single curious face, he is worried.

No phone calls, no customers. Not even a text message.

He did not wake up this morning feeling particularly antsy about the day to come – it was simply a Tuesday, he had a mild headache and a fuzzy tongue from a slightly sour bottle of whiskey.

Actually, maybe the whiskey is the reason he doesn’t notice the emptiness of the day until it is so very late.

He’s sitting behind his desk, his feet resting between two half empty vials of somnacin compounds and on top of a short stack of observatory notes. The air tastes dusty, or maybe his tongue is still fuzzy.

He’s been staring out of the window, watching the evening settle like a storm on the sea from searing light to swallowing dark as it drifts into night.

When the front door of the shop opens, the click creak, the scrape of wood over the floor is deafening.

Yusuf flinches, just about managing to swallow the yelp in his throat as his limbs flail in surprise. With even less finesse does he manage to keep from completely toppling back of his chair and onto the hard floor.

The man that enters is short, a whipcord of tight muscle. His dark skin stretches over prominent collarbones, creased around his big eyes. He looks vaguely familiar.

‘Mr Sanin?’ the stranger asks.

His accent, familiar too, is not quite local.

More importantly, nobody in the whole of Africa has ever called him that before.

‘Who are you?’ Yusuf asks.

He wants to stand up, doesn’t enjoy the height advantage this stranger has over him, for all he might look like a teenager still.

‘My name is Kamau. Mr Sanin –’

‘Yusuf, please,’ Yusuf corrects, shooting a wary glance at the door behind the young man, as if expecting to see all the citizens of Mombasa outside his shop with their ears pressed to the window.

‘Yusuf,’ Kamau says tentatively, distrusting.

When the young man hesitates, shuffling his feet toward Yusuf with his wringing hands and shifting weight, Yusuf stands. His fingertips rest lightly on his desk.

There’s a nervousness about the boy that Yusuf doesn’t care for.

‘What do you want, Kamau?’ he asks quietly. His right thumb taps sharply on the desk, and it’s as if he can feel the heat radiating through the wood from the gun that rests on its underside. He’s used it only twice before, and he’s happy to wait a lot longer before he has to use it again.

‘You are a friend of Eames.’

There’s no question to it, as if Kamau is not asking, is simply reassuring himself.

Yusuf doesn’t say anything.

‘Eames trusts you?’

Definitely a question this time, and when he steps closer Yusuf can see pink in his eyes, a bruise spreading over his jaw.

Yusuf tilts his head in reply. The fingers of his right hand drive hard into the desk, magnetised by the gun beneath it. His scalp itches, and his shirt clings too close to the damp skin of his back.

‘What do you want?’ he asks again.

‘Eames told me if we ever needed to see him, but couldn’t find him, we should go to Mr. Sinan. To this address,’ Kamau says firmly. The distrust in his eyes, scarring his voice with brittle rust, is the kind that Yusuf has come to associate with the likes of Eames, though he makes so sign of recognition at the name.

It makes sense, that a Kenyan stranger would hear the name Sinan from Eames. But what if it’s a trap?

What if this boy is connected to Zumani’s bounty hunters?

Well, Yusuf sighs to himself as he lets out a measured breath, at least if he dies now he won’t be around to hear Eames’ _I told you so!_

Kamau, emboldened by Yusuf’s silence, takes the final step forward, so that his legs are pressed lightly against the other side of the desk. His clothing hangs loose, and Yusuf can’t see the outlines of weapons.

But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

‘Eames told me to tell _you_ , Mr Sinan. So you tell Eames, ok? Please. Tell him that two men came to our village. They didn’t have uniforms, but they spoke like soldiers. Tell him they asked about my mother, and I think they’ll come back.

‘Will you tell him? He’ll want to know. I think they’re still in Nairobi. I think they’re staying there.’

He’s breathing hard, so hard Yusuf can feel the struggle in his own chest.

‘Tell Eames it is not safe in Nairobi. Maybe in Kenya.’

Before Yusuf can reply, Kamau steps back as if the table had set alight, as if his bones were buckling inside him, and he hastens stumbling out of the door, a ghost in the night. The door rattles behind him and there is only the sharp beating of Yusuf's heart bruising his breastbone.

Yusuf sits down, his kneecaps throbbing beneath his skin, and he leans until his forehead rests on the table, cool and hard.

Eames will be in Portland by now.

Should he call? Should he go?

Should he believe anything Kamau – if that really is his name – said, anyway?

_Mr Sinan._

It’s late. The day is almost over, eager to melt into tomorrow, but Mombasa feels suddenly alive with suspicion.

Beneath his desk, his gun remains silent.

He turns off the light, but lingers in the shop. His shop. This, the closest thing to home he’s ever built himself.

Is it about to crumble? A long lived dream now fading as the timer ticks to zero? Or is this just the usual sense of impending doom that comes hand in hand with an all day hangover?

He shakes his head.

_Tomorrow_ , he tells himself. When it is daytime, and Kamau is a memory, and the dust unsettled by his brief presence has returned to its rightful place.

Tomorrow he’ll decide what to do.

.

.

_Portland_

When Eames checks into a room of his own, he has only a disparaging sneer to offer the bedspread that matches Arthur’s on the floor above. He leaves his rucksack in the safe, splashes his face with water and leaves as soon as he can.

Anything to get away from the cold, neatly tucked bedspread.

It took him a long time to get used to hotels, and even now is happier avoiding them at all costs. He’s not entirely sure Arthur’s ever forgiven him for making them get an overnight train to Bucharest rather than a two hour flight that would’ve had a hotel bed waiting for them at the end of it.

When he’s not on a job at least he can make sport out of the other guests, but he doubts it will do to have security crawling on them just because he has an overly healthy relationship with his kleptomania.

Downstairs, the hotel bar is sleek and shiny and a little shy of too cold, with two bartenders neatly dressed to match the décor. Eames orders a whisky sour and settles himself comfortably in the furthest corner of the room, three tables away from the nearest guests with an easy view of the entire room.

He might have to refrain from actually putting a con into action, but that doesn’t mean he can’t play them out in his head.

Despite his best efforts, however, fantasies of charmed heiresses and puffed up businessmen elude him, and he finds himself instead thinking of the mind he’s about to agree to delve into.

It might leave a bitter taste on his tongue to admit it, but what little he remembers of Captain Mike Everett generally revolves around him being a decent guy. He was the kind of man that joined the army wanting to do _good_ , and he was the kind of soldier who put patriotic brotherhood on the top of his list.

Which, if he was being fair, was the majority soldiers he'd ever known.

It’s not that Eames has a moral standing against decent men, per say; it’s just that he has thus far in his life found them to be a little too self-righteous for his liking.

What’s more, he’s never learned how to trust them.

Maybe because Mike Everett was the kind of man who did good deeds for what was at least on the surface no reason beyond his interest in doing good deeds.

It could also be, Eames muses as the whisky itches on his lips, because genuinely decent men are horribly difficult to corrupt, and have made such easy marks in the past that he’s almost felt bad taking their money.

(Almost is still a solid step away from reality, though. He cleaned those bastards for all they were worth. If you're too stupid to hold onto your money, you don't deserve it, thank you very much.)

Eames watches a young woman sitting by herself at a window table, her ankles neatly crossed, her legs bare and her body bundled so neatly into a sundress dress she might have been born that way. Her brow is furrowed, eyes on the table, and unlike the three other solo customers besides himself, she’s making no attempt to appear busy. There’s no phone or book, just her lightly powdered scowl.

Eames traces her outlines on a napkin as he watches, wondering if she’s waiting for someone. Her body angled outwards and delicately poised to the bar says yes, but not once has she looked up to the door or to check the time. He waits for the delightful thrill of eye contact, the moment she realises she’s being watched but has absolutely no idea she’s being catalogued for a mask he’ll slip into like a warm bath, maybe in a week or maybe in a year, when he needs the face of a brooding, mysterious brunette.

It doesn’t happen. She just keeps her eyes on her table, occasionally sipping her clear drink, which Eames has decided is a vodka tonic, and he’s jotting down vague details of her mannerisms on the other side of the napkin by the time he is interrupted by a tall figure approaching from his periphery.

‘You know,’ Dom says as he slides into the chair opposite Eames with a bottle of Heineken in one hand and a bowl of olives in the other. ‘When Arthur said we had company, I didn’t think he meant you.’

Eames grins and helps himself to olives.

‘Bit fancy for you, isn’t it?’ he asks, rolling two olives over his tongue at once.

‘You looked hungry,’ Dom replies.

Eames snorts and eats another before his stomach can growl in response. ‘Where is he, then?’

‘Arthur? I don’t know. I assumed he was with you.’

Eames isn’t sure why Dom’s stare seems to grow heavier at the accusation, nor why it sounds so much like an accusation in the first place, so he goes back to doodling around his drawing. ‘Christ no, only just got here myself. How are the sprogs?’

Dom’s entire being softens at the mention of his children. It had eased the tension that had swallowed up any and all trust between them after Dom’s stunt with Yusuf on the Fischer job, seeing the children screaming delightfully under the adoring gaze of their father.

‘They’re good. They’re – really, really great.’

Eames isn’t very good at forgiveness or family, but he’s good with people. Having very much _not_ dropped into limbo, he could acknowledge the actions of a desperate father for what they were.

His treatment of Arthur is another matter entirely, but this is not the time for that.

(If Arthur has his way, Eames knows, there will never be a time for that.)

‘It’s barely one in the afternoon,’ Dom scoffs when Eames drains his glass and raises his eyebrows at Dom’s barely touched beer.

‘Nice to meet you, I’m Eames,’ Eames replies with a dismissive waggle of his fingers, already halfway to the bar as Dom barks a short laugh of soft derision.

The bartender is polite and not quite intrusive, and seems utterly unaffected by Eames’ charm as she hands him his whisky sour and gin martini.

Dom eyes the second glass suspiciously when he returns, but says nothing.

‘What changed your mind?’ he asks instead, and Eames isn’t surprised because despite others’ complaints, Dom’s bluntness has always been one of Eames’ favourite qualities.

It doesn’t mean he’ll answer any more honestly, but Eames appreciates it all the same.

‘Oh, you know,’ he sighs breezily, eyes scanning the bar like an idle predator, ‘Curiosity. Nosiness. Whatever you want to call it.’

Dom accepts his reply without question, takes another long drink of his beer.

He looks ready to beg another question, and Eames is fairly certain he knows what question it’s going to be, but he never finds out.

They are joined, quite abruptly, by two suited men.

Arthur, smelling of cologne and soap and looking positively _nervous_ , what with his tense shoulders and arresting stare. And of course his friend, black hair as short and dark as the day Eames met him, though his face a little more weathered.

Eames looks up sharply, pleased and unsurprised that both newcomers’ eyes go to Dom first.

‘Mike, this is Dom. Dom, Mike.’

They shake hands, Dom standing to do so. He’s a little shorter than Everett, who scrubs up shockingly well outside army fatigues, though his suit seems shabby in comparison to Arthur’s bespoke Armani.

Eames does his best to keep the smug thrill from his face at this revelation when all three men turn to him expectantly.

‘And Mike, this is Eames. Eames – Mike.’

Mike’s smile is wan and distant, and he shakes Eames’ hand as a stranger. Eames looks up at him calmly from his seat, up to the too familiar face still resting beneath unfamiliar lines.

Well, if Mike Everett isn’t going to acknowledge their past meetings, Eames is in no hurry to contradict him.

‘Shall we?’ Eames gestures to the two remaining chairs.

‘I’ll get some drinks,’ Arthur says, but frowns suspiciously at the glass in front of him.

‘Your favourite, darling?’ Eames says lightly.

Arthur blinks at him, eyes flitting to Mike and back again.

‘Ill be right back,’ Mike says wryly, strolling to the bar with only the barest hint of hesitation.

As he orders, Arthur sits down between Eames and Cobb as if he’s thrusting his neck over an inevitable guillotine, all impatient scowl and spiteful enthusiasm.

‘What the fuck is this?’ he hisses at Eames, who smiles politely, nudging the glass closer to Arthur’s hand, which lies flat on the table, all too innocent.

‘Gin martini, darling. Your favourite?’

(It’s not. His favourite is vodka martini, and Eames knows this. Eames has known this every time he’s ever bought a gin martini for the point man before now. What Eames doesn’t know is whether or not Arthur _knows_ Eames knows.)

Arthur drinks the gin martini.

‘Ah ah ah ,’ Eames interrupts, lifting his own glass and offering it in cheers.

Arthur, who looks ready to twitch for his gun, visibly weighs the pros and cons of obliging Eames versus denying him the satisfaction. When he moves to clink glasses, he stares deliberately at his own hand. ‘ _Eye contact_ ,’ Eames says firmly, and in his surprise Arthur looks up, their eyes meeting at the ringing kiss of their glasses.

There’s a blush on Arthur’s cheekbones, somewhere between embarrassment and frustration.

Eames smiles.

‘Else it’s seven years bad luck,’ he warns.

Arthur narrows his eyes. ‘You’re not superstitious in the slightest.’

‘Can’t hurt to cover all your bases, though,’ Eames shrugs and drinks.

Dom, who is staring so pointedly at Arthur that Eames is almost certain he’s witnessing an exclusive insight into Phillipa Cobb’s future teenage years, clears his throat loudly.

(Eames reminds himself how much he _likes_ the bluntness, so as to avoid throwing the rest of his drink over the extractor.)

Arthur offers Eames one last warning glance before looking over to the returning Mike Everett, who takes the remaining seat opposite Arthur.

‘Isn’t this a little public?’ he asks.

The bar has filled a little more since Eames first arrived, but not by much. The sound of cutlery against plates grows as customers enjoy the Spartan, mildly overpriced menu of salads and organic burgers.

‘You’re all the less suspicious for it, I assure you,’ he replies shortly, before Arthur can say something more diplomatic.

‘I thought you were just bringing one more guy?’ Mike asks, sounding more concerned than accusatory.

‘I reconsidered,’ Arthur replies coolly.

Eames doubts Mike notices the brief glance to Arthur that he and Dom throw.

‘So you’ll – all be going under?’

‘For a first run, probably,’ Arthur nods. ‘I need to know how bad the damage is, if we find anything out of the ordinary,’

Mikes eyes seem to flash steel, and he leans into the table.

‘It’s more than out of the fucking ordinary –’

‘Hey, hey,’ Dom interrupts as Arthur cocks his head to the side, his expression dangerously calm. ‘We know you’re worried, Mike. But not even _you_ have been under yourself. We have no idea what we’re walking into.’

Mike doesn’t seem too thrilled by Dom’s intrusion, but he nods and leans back. His eyes remain trained on Arthur, as if he’s withholding the map to the Holy Grail.

‘I would suggest one test trip, taking Mike as the subject into Arthur’s dream,’ Dom continues, unfazed by Mike’s diverted gaze.

‘But I’ll know I’m going under. I’ve been militarised –’

‘Which is exactly what we want. Your militarisation to reveal itself as fast as possible.’ It’s Arthur’s turn to interrupt, and if Mike bristles less this time he doesn’t seem to notice. Eames watches the muscles in Arthur’s face, drawn tight with concentration, his eyes on Mike, on Dom, on his gin martini, and not on Eames.

Eames grins despite himself. The bruises on his ribs are a dull ache, but he takes a loud, long breath anyway, clasping his hands together on the table, palms loosely cupping his glass after draining it.

‘So,’ he says, drawing all three eyes to himself. ‘Arthur’s dream. How about somewhere familiar for the both of you?’ he smiles kindly at Mike’s wary expression. ‘You met in Cairo, yes?’

Only years of careful training on his part could adequately prepare Eames to withstand the glare of murder that Arthur throws him.

(It’s worth it.)

.

.

_Debrecen_

Sinclair, who is still not Arthur, is rapidly sneaking past all of Ariadne’s defences, and if she isn’t careful she knows she’s in danger of reversing her thought processes to _Arthur, who is not Sinclair._

After their easy, mostly idle chat in the university the day before, they managed to find a few spare hours for even easier, even idler chat that evening. She still knows nothing more personal about him than his name, but the questions she has asked, pertaining mostly to dreamshare and occasionally to the cities he may or may not have worked in, he has answered without hesitation ever since.

She is certain that, while he has no doubt omitted some revealing truths, he has never actually lied to her.

Which is more than can be said for almost everyone else she’s ever worked with in this business.

It’s early evening when he arrives at her desk bearing fresh coffee and concerned, raised eyebrows.

‘How long have you been working for?’ he demands, which is a little hypocritical considering he was already in when she arrived this morning, and unlike her he hadn’t gone out into the university to meet the client with Farrim earlier.

The client, a vapid, nosy young woman of few words – which Ariadne felt had little to do with any language barrier – had stared critically at Ariadne before proceeding to ignore her for half an hour, while Farrim patiently explained as much as she felt was necessary to satisfy the cold eye creature before sitting them.

Ariadne has never felt particularly intimidated by other members of her sex, no matter how attractive, intelligent or elegant, but something about Ms Kató had put her on edge.

When Sinclair places the steaming coffee beneath her nose, her teeth are still grinding and there is a knot of tension somewhere near the base of her skull.

‘Thank you,’ she says instead of replying.

‘Finish up, then.’ He waves a hand as if dismissing her, but there’s a tiny smile on his lips that she’s never seen before, and it pulls a smile at her own lips despite herself.

‘I have work to do,’ she points out, making a weak effort at a scowl.

He graciously does not point out she has already thrown her pencil onto the table, and both her hands are clutching the proffered paper cup like her life – or sanity, or perhaps both – depend upon it.

'You have done more than enough work today. I know you feel like you have to prove yourself, but you already got the job. You're doing it right now, and it's good. So put your work away and come with me.'

Farrim, who is sitting within earshot poring over case files, says nothing. Doesn’t even look up from her papers.

Sinclair leaves no room for argument, plucking the coffee from Ariand’es grasp before she can even take her first sip, leaving her to hastily scrabble her things into some semblance of order and follow after him out into the open air.

She catches up with him just as they exit the building, the air muggier than the day before. He hands over her coffee without prompting, and they walk in the direction of what might be the university again, this time together. They enjoy a mostly companionable silence; despite the strangers going about their day, Debrecen feels sleepy in the thick air.

There's no wind today. Ariadne swings her arm to tease a draft through her shirt. Sinclair, who watches out of the corner of his eye, grins.

'Come on,' he says, taking her by the elbow with his fingertips and not so much pulling and nudging her down a side street, where they quickly duck into a tiny bakery which houses only four tables and a counter bigger than all of them put together.

There are two women behind it, sitting with their feet propped up on each others' chairs, chatting. When they enter the smaller of the two women, pretty, probably younger than Ariadne, stands and smiles.

‘Szia!' she says to Sinclair, with a tilt of her head that implies a surprising familiarity.

‘Szia,' Sinclair replies, smiling.

‘Üdv újra,' the girl says with a slight question in her voice.

‘Igen, köszönöm,' Sinclair replies with an exaggerated shrug towards Ariadne. ‘Négy szilvás gombóc, kérem.'

While Ariadne stares bemused at the exchange, the girl ushers them into a warm corner table and returns with a plate of four round, crumbed dumplings. It's only once the waitress is sitting that Ariadne realises the small red, swirly logo on the paper cup given to her by Sinclair is identical to the one on the girl's apron.

'Oh, you got it all planned out,' Ariadne teases with a roll of her eyes, then, realising she's not entirely sure what she means by that, she blushes instead. She takes a large gulp of coffee, chokes, and as she's coughing it down does her absolute best to refrain from literally smacking her face with her palm in despair.

Sinclair just laughs, taking a bite out of one of the dumpings. Ariadne follows suit before she can embarrass herself any further.

The two women have returned to their conversation, the rapid Hungarian a blur of syllables to Ariadne's ears. Her gaze flits between the women and the man sitting comfortably before her, and he answers before she can ask.

'I can learn the basics pretty quickly if I have to,' he shrugs. 'I'll forget it within days of leaving here, though.'

'Convenient skill,' Ariadne says not entirely without envy.

Sinclair, however, does not seem interested in discussing his linguistic skills, or her lack thereof. He leans into the table, fingers still clutching his pastry which is steadily crumbling onto his plate.

'Ariadne, I'm afraid I have another reason for bringing you here beyond your delightful company,' he says quietly. 'Regardless of how delightful your company actually is,' he acknowledges with a nod of his head in her direction.

Ariadne frowns. Her hands slide off her coffee cup. 'Oh?'

'Ariadne,' Sinclair says delicately, looking almost nervous. 'I think you may be in some sort of trouble.'

'What do you mean?' she asks hotly, even as a sudden douse of cold water seems to shower her previous contentment.

'Someone's been mentioning your name - in conversations that your name should definitely not be getting mentioned in,' Sinclair says, and not for the first time Ariadne feels a rush of frustration at all the secrets _someones_ that everyone in this wretched business insists on talking about. 'I sent a contact I trust - an outsider, just to be safe - to check up on you.'

'On _me_?' Ariadne splutters. ‘But I'm right here!'

'Ariadne,' Sinclair says kindly, and it sounds not very kind at all. 'On _Paris_.'

'You don't know -' she cuts herself off. Of course he knows precisely where she lives. In truth, it wouldn't even take a proficient point to find her. 'But who -' she says instead, only to find the question too bitter even to spit out.

'You're smart, you're sensible," Sinclair says as if in agreement with her silence. 'Whoever threw you in this mess, you are going to be collateral damage if you're not careful. You've been working with dangerous people, Ariadne.'

She thinks, briefly, of the beautiful, weeping Mallorie, and of her husband who might've spent the rest of eternity in limbo with only her memory for company. She thinks of suits that cost more than a month's rent of her flat and chemical formulas that can do all manner of damage with just the right needle in the right vein.

'And you're not dangerous?' she pushes cautiously, not quite an accusation but certainly no joke.

'I certainly wouldn't get you involved in my own personal vendettas, you can count on that,' Sinclair retorts, sounding aggravated.

'Well, what can I do?' she asks simply. Sinclair's lips twitch, and his burnt orange eyes widen ever so slightly. He sits back.

'You're not even a little bit afraid,' he says. She's almost offended that he sounds surprised.

'Fear's not going to change anything.’

'Fear can save your life,' Sinclair corrects.

'In small, healthy doses, yes,' Ariadne replies with a smile, which Sinclair returns somewhat reluctantly.

The air is sweet in the bakery, not so much sugary as the fresh sweetness of bread, hot and crispy. They are the only customers, hidden in this secret pocket of Debrecen, and Sinclair is looking at Ariadne like she might've had a hand in hanging the moon.

The warmth in her chest refuses to quell itself.

'You should go,' Sinclair says, startling the silence.

Ariadne shakes her head.

'Ariadne,' he says firmly. 'Now is not the time for futile displays of heroic stoicism. I'm not saying you should be running away with your tail tucked between your legs. I'm saying you should be _sensible_. Ok? You've done most of the necessary groundwork for the level. Let me smooth things over with Farrim. You'll still get paid some, and your reputation will be none the worse for it. I promise.'

'I'm not a quitter,' Ariadne retorts stubbornly, taking a large bite of her dumping as if to prove a point. Her teeth feel lacquered with glazed sugar, but she munches through it all the same.

'Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' Sinclair almost barks at her, his hand a fist on the table. His cheeks are pink. 'Ariadne, don't be an idiot. You won't be any more respected for it, you'll just be dead. Do you understand me?'

'How do you know they want to kill me?' Ariadne demands. 'How do I trust you're telling me the truth?'

Sinclair seems torn between whether to throw the rest of his coffee over her or himself.

'I don't and you'll have to,' he snaps. 'I promise you, though, Ariadne. Whatever they want with you? It's not a friendly chat over coffee.'

She's certain she knows what he's thinking, then.

He's thinking how naive she is. He’s thinking that she must not realise the people she's been putting her faith in for the past two years are not good man in a cutthroat business. He’s thinking she doesn’t know that in fact it's men like Arthur, like Eames, perhaps even Yusuf, who _make_ the business cutthroat in the first place.

'I knew what I was getting into, you know,' she says quietly. 'I'm not an idiot.'

If she sounds petulant, she can't bring herself to care.

'I know,' Sinclair replies.

When he reaches across the table to place a hand over hers, she doesn't pull away.

'But you have to go. Please,' he says.

He smiles again, apologetic and sad. Ariadne wishes nothing more than for this to just be two people sharing delightful company.

'Where are you from?' she asks.

Actually, she blurts it out unexpectedly, so that they both laugh. To her amazement he replies.

'Belfast,' he says.

To her even greater amazement, she believes him. When he keeps talking, she listens hungrily.

'And I'll see you when this blows over, I'm sure. Now finish your coffee, quick. I'll get you to Bucharest, and you can fly from there. Have you ever been to Budapest before?'

.

.

_Portland_

The omens come thick and fast, and Arthur pretends to ignore them all.

The imprint of the sandy head in his pillow, Mike’s sharp eyes as they approach Dom and Eames at the table.

The gin martini, the _darling_ , Cairo.

The way Eames’ fingers rest for less than a moment on his forearm before they stand to leave the bar. Mike’s thousand questions all the way up to Dom’s hotel room. (Eames’ lewd suggestions of all the other things four men might do in a hotel room, and whether or not the maids have spotted them.)

Dom’s strangely unnerved authority.

And the smaller ones.

The tangle of the wires as they open the PASIV. A crack in one of the vial lids of somnacin sent by Yusuf.

There’s probably thunderclouds outside the window, too, but Arthur at least closes the blinds without checking.

All day Arthur’s felt dirty paw prints, sometimes his own and sometimes others’, staining this job.

Mike’s anxiety, Dom’s determination, Eames’ spitefulness. There’s something else going on, something more than just recceing through an old friend’s mind, and maybe he should have thought this through, maybe he should’ve considered all the implications of putting himself in the firing line of a military he screwed over repeatedly years ago. Of putting others in its way, too.

The dirty paw prints get heavier as they discuss going under. As Dom stares wondrously at him, waiting for his contribution, and Mike jumps on the defence at every corner, and Eames just sits back withholding all the bountiful knowledge brewing behind his eyes because he’d rather have it drawn out of him like blood from a stone.

The omens are overcast when they go under at half past six in the evening, and Arthur tells himself it’s going to be ok. He lies on one side of the double bed, as many inches as he can manage between himself and Mike. Dom takes the chair, and Eames unceremoniously sprawls out in every direction on the floor near the door, a loose limbed, lazy, sulking lion.

When they go under at half past six in the evening, Eames pushes the button and keeps his eyes on Mike the whole time, and Arthur just looks up at the ceiling, feels the needle in his arm like a kitchen knife.

His skin prickles, and his eyes close over damp, sore eyes.

The room vanishes.

Arthur opens his eyes only to shut them against the blinding Sahara sunshine.

The heat is as vicious as he remembers, but the sweat already clinging to his skin is more than the sun. In his chest his breath rattles. His mouth is too wet, and he’s certain he can _taste_ the Somnacin. The old, implosive formula that came with nausea and cramps and migraines, before the revolution of the chemists – before, when it didn’t matter if you got sick or if you died, there were a hundred other soldiers in line behind you, chomping at the bit, waiting to pounce, and –

‘Arthur?’

Dom’s hand is light on his upper arm, and Arthur shields his eyes before opening them again.

‘Yeah?’ he asks, blinking furiously and wiping his damp upper lip.

Dom looks concerned, but his hand doesn’t linger on his arm. He pulls back, looking around instead. They are alone.

They are alone in a deserted square that might once have been Tahrir Square, but is now a wreckage of broken chunks of brick, smouldering in the aftermath – of what?

This is not the Cairo Arthur knew, nor the one he should have dreamed up.

‘Did you do this?’ Dom asks, gesturing to the blasted remains of the Mogamma.

Arthur has two answers battling for dominance, and one of them is _maybe_.

And he hates it when others aren’t specific, of course, so instead he says ‘No,’ breathless with surprise. _Probably not_ , he adds silently after, which Dom thankfully doesn’t seem to notice.

‘We need to find Eames and Mike,’ he says, eradicating any and all doubt that might be floating around.

‘We need to figure out if this was an accident,’ Dom corrects. ‘Is this part of Mike’s internal security?’

Arthur looks around, but there’s no sign of a military presence, which he’d been sure he’d find because Mike is a very literal man.

( _As are you, darling_ , a voice replies in his head, unwelcome and ignored.)

In fact, there’s no sign of population at all. Not a single projection.

‘None that I know of,’ Arthur replies. He can feel grit and sand leaking into his clothes on the wind, peppering his skin.

‘So his mind changed the dream, assuming it was an accident,’ Dom says.

His intrigue is both sickening and comforting.

‘What is there to gain from desolating the dreamscape?’ Dom ponders aloud, picking up some loose rubble and letting it tumble out of his hand, kicking up a light spray of dust.

The silence is eerie, stale, and then –

‘Who says there’s anything to gain?’

The voice is loud and perfectly at ease, startling the two men.

Eames stands in the shelter of the single remaining wall of a once tall, proud looking buildig, and Arthur, sun flushed and nauseous, feels a swell of horror when he sees not the Eames of five minutes ago – well, mere seconds, topside – but the Eames of years ago, young and soft skinned and almost wiry.

Eames steps out of the shadow towards them, and Dom is already speaking, and Eames looks perfectly like himself again, and maybe it was a trick of the light, a trick of Arthur’s own memories filling gaps he carved out himself. But Eames’ grey eyes are light and teasing as he approaches and Arthur can’t help but think it was a trick of _Eames_ , the forger, throwing him off his game with a toothy grin.

It wouldn’t exactly be the first time.

‘What about if this really is Mike’s mind?’ Arthur says loudly, too embarrassed by Eames’ amusement to feel embarrassed at effectively cutting Dom off mid-sentence.

‘What do you mean?’ Dom asks, unperturbed.

‘What if Mike’s subconscious is telling us what they did to him?’ He gestures to the wreckage, still no Mike in sight, and blinks the sweat from his eyes as it trickles past his brow.

‘What,’ Dom says thoughtfully. ‘Blasted it apart and raided the pocket holes?’

‘Oh, Arthur,’ Eames laughs gently, gentle enough to raise his hackles. ‘Always so literal.’

Hopefully his face is already too flushed for the blush to show, but Arthur still wants to swipe that smirk away with his fist.

‘You forget, Mr Eames, that I know Captain Everett much better than you do, and yes, he might just be this literal.’

‘You poor things,’ Eames mutters, his expression curious. His derision is interceded by Cobb.

‘It could be,’ Cobb concedes to Arthur. ‘But that doesn’t explain the lack of projections. If Yusuf was right about the formula he sent, it should be triggering powerful blockades. We should either be _surrounded_ by his security, or overloaded with his emotional triggers. This is… _nothing_.’

There has never been a question of the integrity of Yusuf’s formulas, which leaves one confounding answer, which is also, unfortunately, a question.

What could possibly go wrong with a somnacin veteran's mind to obliterate his security so completely?

'Well then,' Eames says jovially, clapping his hands once and rubbing them together like a child with a soft play area stretching out before his feet. 'Only one thing for it, lads.'

He's dreamed up the gun before Arthur can figure out how reckless Eames is feeling today.

He's fired the antagonising shot into the air before Dom can snatch it out of his grip.

And Arthur doesn't know how, he doesn't know who, though it's obvious _why_ , but Arthur is powerless as Eames' throat tears open, cut by the very air he breathes, and there's one wet, bloody gasp before they can say a word.

Eames hits the ground before Arthur can catch him, soaked, slack. Dead.

Arthur sighs quietly to himself, a pained expression on his face.

'Fucking hell, you _asshole_.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments! They're very much appreciated.  
> Please feel free to correct/improve the Hungarian speech, as I am no master linguist.


	4. FOUR

Awake yon’, minister. There is a message to be delivered.

Awake young, passenger. Awake your country.

You're going to need, to find some strength, now, to, wake up!

In this war without an end, what peace do you defend?

In this war without an end, what fear do you depend upon?

_Count of Casualty - Patrick Wolf_

**(In which there are many evils, and lesser is a relative term.)**

_Portland_ _; 31st October 2012_

Twelve attempts have been made. Twelve fearless dives into the battered subconscious of Captain Michael Everett.

In Arthur's leather bound notebook, the count thus far stands:

_Unable to locate Cpt. M.E: 7_

_Dreamscape desolated by subconscious of Cpt. M.E: 10_

_Unable to sustain dream under pressure: 6_

_Projections not present in subconscious of Cpt. M.E: 9_

_Arthur erased: 2_

_Cobb erased: 4_

_Eames erased: 12_

Eames hadn't taken kindly to the keeping of scores, but Arthur had assured him it was necessary for any and all research purposes.

In truth, it might have been fun to keep score if the deaths weren't so violent and, quite frankly, unlike anything Arthur had ever before encountered.

He had entered plenty of hostile minds – had a perfectly hostile subconscious himself, thanks very much – but never before had the very fabric of the dream been so deadly.

There was nothing to be done to stop it, and there was no way of predicting when it would happen. Spontaneous death could occur at any moment, in any manner. Sometimes for no apparent reason.

(With the exception of the obvious, of course. For instance, firing your gun into the air in the middle of a deserted Cairo square in a narcissistic plea for attention.)

When Eames made his distaste for the term _erased_ known, Arthur had suggested writing _vanquished_ instead, but Eames' jokes about Arthurian knight fetishisation had apparently only ever been jokes, because his mood only further deteriorated.

They're in Dom's hotel room again; Mike sitting on the edge of the bed, Dom leaning against the desk with his arms crossed over his chest, Arthur pacing the miniscule length of the window, Eames sitting tight on the floor with his knees close to his chest.

It’s been several minutes since the conversation, which might be better called an argument, quietened to nothing. Arthur has been monitoring the tension of the room based on the acute levels of the pain in his upper back as his muscles slowly bunch their way into cinderblocks.

When Eames opens his mouth, Arthur decides to give him the benefit of the doubt and wait until he’s actually spoken before telling him to shut up.

‘We’ll take you into my dream,’ he says, sounding about as enthused as Mike looks at the idea.

‘Absolutely not,’ Arthur says, looking scandalised.

‘What? We’re running out of options, Arthur,’ Dom splutters.

Mike grimaces and nods.

‘Arthur, he has to,’ Eames says plainly. He raises his interlocked fingers, which are loosely wrapped around his bent knees as if to say, _what else can we do?_

But Arthur shakes his head so vehemently it looks ready to come clean off his neck. ‘Never again,’ he says in a tone that alerts everybody in the whole of Portland that the discussion is over.

Everybody except Dom, apparently.

‘Hang on,’ he says, shaking his hand in the air in a vain attempt to make Arthur stop his dizzying pacing. ‘You’ve been under together before? Did you – did you train together?’

It’s a long shot, but what little of Eames’ history Dom does know makes it entirely possible he crossed paths with the US military. After all, Arthur was the one to introduced Eames to Dom and Mal…

‘No,’ Arthur barks defensively, at the exact same moment that Eames and Mike reply _Yes._

The look of respective fury and betrayal that Arthur sends Eames and Mike is both telling and utterly bemusing.

‘It’s a stupid idea,’ Arthur mutters before Dom can probe further.

‘Well, Arthur, it’s the only one we’ve got,’ Eames snaps waspishly. ‘I suggest we call it a day. I’ve already died nine times today. Twelve in the past twenty-four hours.’ Eames does not seem pacified with the look of meek apology Mike sends him. ‘Let’s take a break, and tomorrow we start _planning_. None of this trial and error bullshit. If you need any more reccies you can do them yourself.’

It’s rich, coming from the king of trial and error himself, but that only makes it sting more because Arthur knows he’s right. He concedes with a small nod of cold approval.

‘I think –’ Mike begins, but Eames is already halfway out of the hotel room door without a second glance. The door snaps shut behind him with hard finality.

When Arthur moves to follow him, Dom steps in his way with hands raised and his _Bossman Peacekeeper_ expression set firmly on his face.

‘ _I_ will go,’ he says calmly, and attempts to outstare Arthur as if expecting him to storm out all in a rage, kicking and screaming.

(He might, but for not nearly the same reasons that Dom is envisioning.)

‘Fine,’ Arthur spits.

Dom hovers, waiting for Arthur to explode – perhaps literally as well as metaphorically.

‘ _Go_ , then,’ Arthur snaps, and Dom marches out of the door with a scolding glance for the point man’s impatience.

Arthur can feel the heat of embarrassment rising through him like steam in his windpipe. After the sudden panic of the first failed attempt, he had been the one to insist they dive straight back in. It was also him that forced the decision to keep on trying, certain that they could just break through if they hammered hard enough.

Arthur will admit he’s made mistakes in his life, but underestimating the diamond hard power of the subconscious has never before been one of them.

‘Arthur,’ Mike says, almost tentative, almost kindly.

The name still sounds foreign coming from his mouth, and for a moment Arthur wishes he’d slip up – just once. Just to be Hewitt again, briefly, however briefly.

‘We’ll get there,’ he promises. ’I’m sorry, Mike. We will get there.’

Mike nods, trusting and melancholy.

His faith in Arthur should feel uplifting, but it feels a lot more like pebbles in his gut, clacking together angrily.

‘If you don’t want me to go under with Eames –’

‘Well apparently it doesn’t matter what _I_ want,’ he sniffs petulantly. ‘But given _your_ subconscious has been taking out all its creativity on Eames’ demise since we started, I’d have thought we’d all be on the same page for that one.’

‘ _He_ was the one provoking my subconscious,’ Mike splutters. ‘ _Which_ I have even less control of at the moment than usual.’

‘It’s _Eames_ ,’ Arthur scoffs, his hands on his hips and his brow creased in despair as if Mike had lamented the sky being blue. ‘He provokes _everyone_.’

Mike’s eyes widen a fraction.

Then he laughs.

‘How long have you been fucking him?’

His voice grows as he asks it, as if the question comes to him only after it’s left his lips, only realises what he’s asked as the colour drains from Arthur’s cheeks, then comes flooding back, crimson and blotchy.

‘None of your goddamn business,’ Arthur replies hotly.

But Mike’s entire expression has melted into a feasting, almost ugly grin.

‘You left for _him_ , didn’t you?’ Mike asks, the realisation dawning over him in a tide too strong for Arthur to push back. He turns aside in dismay, can’t look at the childlike wonder in his friend’s face. ‘Hewitt? Jesus. You left for him, didn’t you?’

‘Among other things,’ Arthur says under his breath, mouth almost pressed to his own shoulder.

It’s the most truthful answer that springs to mind, but even so, _yes_. He left the military for several reasons, each one more personal than the next, but at the end of the day? If it hadn’t been for Eames he might still be stuck there now.

‘ _Jesus_ , Hew – uhh – Arthur,’ Mike corrects.

He considers Arthur then, appraises him from where he sits on the bed. Whatever he sees, it makes his smile cautiously.

‘Ok,’ he says, and the accepting sigh that comes through the smirk ghosting his face makes the pebbles in Arthur’s gut shrink a little. ‘Ok. I get it.’

‘Do you?’ Arthur asks.

(Of course he doesn’t, couldn’t possibly, how could he?)

‘Yeah. _Arthur_. I do. And I’m sorry, but, I’m still going to have to go under with him.’

Arthur keeps his expression still, but Mike sees through him the same way he did ten years ago.

‘You almost killed him,’ Arthur says, tries his best to sound objective, almost manages it, too.

(It’s difficult, because Arthur knows if he ever dreams naturally again it will be a nightmare, and he knows it will be Eames clawing his own veins out of his forearms.)

‘It will be different,’ Mike says, which is true. There will be no hounding Aldman, no military procedure, no extra-curricular experiments.

Of course, Aldman and the military and the many, many experiments have been a great looming elephant over this entire ordeal since Arthur first met Mike in a bar in Milwaukee – _two_ weeks ago.

Was it really two weeks ago? It feels like an age. Like a blink.

‘Damn right it’ll be different,’ Arthur says anyway.

‘You wanted to keep it a secret,’ Mike announces as Arthur sags into sitting on the edge of the bed, too.

‘What?’

‘You introduced us like we were strangers. In the bar yesterday. You introduced us, same as –’ but Mike stops, nods in sudden understanding even before he says it. ‘Dom doesn’t know anything. _Anything_?’

‘Pretty much,’ Arthur shrugs, a little guilty, mostly indifferent. ‘No reason to tell him. And it’s as much for Eames to tell as me. And technically I _had_ to introduce you. It’s not like you ever actually met _Eames_ before. Not like this.’

Mike picks at a thread in the covers. He doesn’t speak. He crouches on the floor and starts to pack away with PASIV, which is still a tangled mess from their last failed attempt. He runs his fingers over each IV thread as he loops them back into their compartments, as careful as if it were alive.

Arthur watches without seeing.

It will be different this time.

.

.

Dom could’ve easily caught up with Eames before he reached the end of the corridor. Instead he follows, almost leisurely, waiting for his own heart rate to settle, for his head to clear, and gently knocks on the door of his room probably less than five seconds after is closes.

First there is a loud angry voice.

( _‘Piss off!’_ )

And then the door opens.

‘You fu – Cobb. No, Cobb. No thanks.’

When Dom wedges his foot in the doorway before it can slam in his face, Eames makes no attempt to fight. He simply walks back into the room with slumped shoulders, dropping face first into a starfish on his bed like a sulking teenager while Dom lets himself in and closes the door.

‘I’m not going to fight you,’ Dom says, to which Eames’ reply is muffled by the mattress and for the sake of their friendship that’s probably for the best. ‘If you think you should be the dreamer, I trust you.’

Eames lifts his head, stares blankly at Dom with bleary eyes. For a moment he looks like he might punch him if he could. Then he drops his head back down on one side.

‘Wow,’ he says, kicking his feet against the mattress lazily. ‘Thanks so much, Mr Cobb. I really, _really_ appreciate it.’

Dom groans into his palms, fingers pressing into the creases of his forehead. The rolling aftermath of repeatedly diving into a muddled subconscious is taking its toll. He feels cloudy and slow, and when he looks up Eames is sitting on the edge of his bed, squinting at the closed door of the bathroom.

He looks angry, and Dom has little interest in poking that bear.

He leans against the door behind him, as if to trap himself in lest Eames insist he leave.

‘You already know Mike,’ he says, mostly because it feels safer than _Are you ok?_

Eames doesn’t so much as twitch. Dom shifts, like the unsettling of dust.

‘Arthur never said anything,’ Dom continues casually.

His shameless fishing at least conjures a roll of the forger’s eyes.

‘You know our Arthur,’ Eames says dryly. ’Awfully ashamed to admit past woes.’

It might be a warning to shut up, or it might be an invitation to enquire further. Whichever it is, Dom takes a moment too long to decide because Eames keeps talking.

‘ _Captain_ Everett and I – clashed, to say the least. Well, so did Arthur and I. You know, when things were still – ugly, most of the time.’ He waves a dismissive hand, waggly fingers, not looking to see if Dom agrees, as if Dom was ever military, as if Dom didn’t start out in college laboratories and knee deep in a thesis that was going to revolutionise the world but instead just gave the big boys more toys with which to play at soldiers unsupervised.

Dom’s mind turns quite inexplicably to Ariadne, whom he hasn’t spoken to in months, but whose dazzled wonder he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget even if never talks to her again. Different even to the fresh delight of his children, discovering the real world in all its glory.

(Which is terrible, very terrible. Very terrible and very true.)

Dom glances at the bathroom door Eames is burning holes into, and back again.

‘I think we should take Mike by surprise,’ Dom says. ‘And I think we need a complete team.’

‘Has Arthur told you who might be involved in all this?’ Eames asks coolly, raising a solitary eyebrow.

‘He’s told me some,’ Dom replies. ‘Military General. You knew him?’

Eames’ replying smirk, without even the courtesy of looking over at him, makes Dom feel very small. He doesn’t like it one bit.

‘I’ll talk to Arthur in the morning. We need to call in an architect. And a chemist.’

Eames snorts at the hesitant hope in Dom’s voice as he mentions the latter. He’s calmer, now. He looks over at Dom and grins the way he did in Mombasa two years ago, pleased, even more so than the smile reveals.

‘Oh Cobb,’ Eames chuckles. ‘Yusuf isn’t coming anywhere _near_ this job, I promise you that. He’ll probably send us some more compounds, but that’s about it. No matter what we bribe him with.’

The dig scrapes the bone a little too hard, but Eames is still smiling and Dom only clicks his tongue disapprovingly. He had no interest in apologising then, he has even less interest now.

‘Ask him to send more, then. He’ll listen to you.’

Eames slaps his knees and sighs his amusement.

‘Your faith in my diplomacy skills is outstanding,’ he says. ‘But I’m sure he shall oblige for a handsome sum.’

He raises his eyebrows as if to say _anything else?_ and Dom, satisfied that Eames is not about to drown himself in the shower, lets out a long breath and nods at nothing in particular. He should probably press a little further, or at least properly debrief the man who’s just been brutally murdered twelve times in less than twice as many hours.

He won’t, though.

‘I’m going to call Lewis Foreman,’ Dom says, and is surprised by Eames’ scoff. ‘What? He’s good.’

‘Yes,’ Eames muses grimly. ‘Ariadne is better.’

‘ _Eames_ ,’ Dom says insistently. ‘The last time I offered her a job was to perform _inception_. I can’t ask this –’

‘Then have Arthur call her. Or _I’ll_ call her. This is the sort of thing she loves.’

That Eames can say this with confidence makes Dom narrow his eyes suspiciously.

‘Have you been working with her?’

He heard all about the Welkley extraction in Zurich, but he’d thought Ariadne was happier tucking her wings in until she’d graduated, now.

‘She’s the best,’ Eames replies candidly. For people like Eames and Dom, this in itself is answer enough. ‘We’ve kept in touch.’

He wonders briefly if his painting of Lisbon arrived safely to her. Maybe he _will_ call her after all.

‘Maybe you should call her,’ Dom agrees, looking downright bashful in his relief, to which Eames nods and stands, looking ready to usher the man out of the door.

‘If there’s nothing else, Cobb. I’m knackered.’

(It hopefully sounds less pathetic than _I’m so exhausted I’m about to start bleeding from my eyeballs_.)

It would seem so, because Dom nods and moves to open the door. Eames follows, ready to double lock it behind the extractor so he can spend at least an hour of peace in his shower. When Dom pauses to look back at Eames, maybe to inspect his expression for suicidal traces, Eames thinks about snapping an impatient quip.

Then he thinks of Mallorie, her fiery eyes. He thinks about hotels and suicides and he thinks maybe it would be in poor taste to joke.

‘I will speak to you _later_ , Mr Cobb,’ Eames says instead, not caring to hide the triteness in his tone.

‘Take care of yourself,’ Cobb replies, offhand and stern. Such a _parent_. The door snaps shut behind him with a loud and welcome click.

Alone at last, Eames lets out a groan.

‘You’re going to be the death of me,’ he whispers to nobody.

And when nobody replies, he smiles.

. 

.

_Paris_

By the time she reaches her apartment Ariadne is train crumpled, plane rumpled, sleepless and cranky. She walks up Rue Beranger with feet that never quite leave the pavement and her spine so stiff she’s afraid that one swift gust of wind will send her toppling into the road.

The suitcase clattering on its wheels, dragged along in her wake, grumbles along the cobblestones and she’d pick it up but her apartment is in sight, it’s so close, and all she wants is her bed but there’s a prickling sensation all over her skin that might be pins and needles but feels more like fear that Sinclair was right, that she won’t be able to stay here long…

The building feels no different to when she locked the door behind her almost two weeks ago.

The scent of crumbling plaster beneath layers of new, of old wood and dusty footsteps of fifty years.

The case thunks up step by step behind her, the high, tiny staircase windows streaming in thin rays of yellow, broken by fat handrails and tiny doors.

Her keys rattle as the lock shutters in a dull series of clicks.

In the first shadow of entry, she is welcomed with the close-aired warmth of familiarity, a long awaited embrace. Her hand fumbles for the light switch as the door swings shut behind her.

The flat, bathed in artificial eco-bulb light and the slits of sunshine peeking around the closed curtains, is a wreckage.

Sofa cushions pulled out, the contents of all her shelves littering the floor, Ariadne’s breath catches like needles in her throat.

‘No, no, no, no, no, no,’ she mutters, dropping the handle of her suitcase and dashing through the flat, as if hoping to catch the culprit red-handed.

Wardrobe emptied, kitchen upside down, a hot flush of panic staining her face, down her throat and chest, and hot stinging tears clump her eyelashes together as she scrabbles for her phone.

It slips through her trembling fingers like wet soap, and an animal growl escapes her throat as she snatches it up.

The dial tone, a heavy tremor in her ear, can’t quite penetrate the numb glaze of panic swarming through her head. She stares at a book peaking out from under the couch in the living room. Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s _Love in a Time of Cholera_. Her mother’s favourite, read so often the spine is as soft as the pages and in its tossing to the floor several of those pages have pulled loose, and are peaking out of cover.

She picks it up with one hand, and is shuffling the rogue papers back where they belong roughly when a voice answers on the other end of the phone, startling her out of her silent fright.

‘ _Ariadne?_ ’

‘Arthur,’ Ariadne chokes, gulping and coughing and saying his name again.

‘ _What’s wrong?_ ’ he asks, in that voice that makes her feel safe because it reminds her that he has killed before, and will again, and that he is on her side.

Still, it’s hard to feel safe when the framed photo of her brother’s twin boys has cracked over the empty fire grate.

‘Arthur,’ she says a third time, even quieter.

‘ _Ariadne, tell me what’s wrong_ ,’ Arthur says, voice of black ice. ‘ _Are you hurt? Where are you?_ ’

The words, blunt and fumbling on her dry tongue, take a few seconds to come out.

‘Arthur, someone – they broke into my apartment – I don’t know – I don’t – please –’

‘ _Ariadne, slow down_ ,’ Arthur says, a shake in his voice that isn’t promising. ‘ _Where are you?_ ’

‘Paris!’ she shouts. Shouts like he might be able to hear her even without the phone line. ‘Fucking Paris. I’m in Paris – I’m home – someone was here, the place is – Arthur it looks like a fucking bomb exploded – my shit’s everywhere –’

‘ _Ariadne, Ariadne,_ ’ he says, tight wound as a sailor’s knot and very far away. ‘ _Do you know who it was?’_

The mug on the mantelpiece that she left before flying to Hungary, coffee stained and forgotten is still there, untouched. On the floor are crumpled books and broken frames, but the dirty cup with the picture of the cat on it that she doesn’t even like is intact.

Something boils inside her, rotting and bitter.

‘No! No, no I don’t,’ he says, gags on the words as they tumble out in a speed of frustration.

_‘Ok,’_ Arthur says, like he has everything under control. Like he can deal with this, and maybe he can. ‘ _You need to get out of there, ok?’_ he says, and Ariadne nods because the reply is stuck under her tongue. _‘Do you hear me? I am booking you a flight right now, ok? You’re going to get a flight to Seattle, you hear me? Then you’re going to get a regional flight to somewhere else, and I am going to pick you up. Ariadne, do you understand me_?’

In the two years since her eyes were opened to dreams and the life of a dream criminal, Ariadne has known some marginal trouble. It has not all been plain sailing, and after the Conroy Job in Tallahassee yes, Arthur did finally give her a few extra firearms lessons. Never, though, in all that time has she ever really felt the impending and desperate fear for her life’s safety.

This home, which has been a safe nest from school, from the world, and even from dreamshare, has been violated, and any sacredness in its walls feels stripped away as easily as cheap wallpaper.

Arthur is talking again, and she finally catches her breath.

‘Yes,’ she says, still nodding like it will help. ‘Yes. Flight to Seattle. Got it.’

‘ _Just pack a bag fast as you can and get out of there, do you hear me?’_ he says. ‘ _I will text you all your flight details, and where to go to next._ ’

‘And you’ll meet me?’

She cringes a little when it comes out as a question, the book dropping out of her hands onto the distressed sofa as she scans the room for any essentials she might want to bring.

Her suitcase is still waiting for her near the door, still packed even if everything inside is probably horribly creased already.

‘ _I will meet you_ ,’ Arthur replies reassuringly, doesn’t laugh or reprimand her. ‘ _I’ll see you in less than a day, alright?_ ’

He hangs up quickly, and for two long, trembling breaths Ariadne stands in the middle of the room, feels the wet of tears stinging her cheeks for the first time. Angry, she brushes them away with a hard swipe of one hand over her face and shoves her phone back into her jeans pocket.

She tugs on the hem of her jumper, damp with sweat underneath but she doesn’t have time to do more than dash to her bedroom, throw off the jumper and pick another out of the bottom drawer of her cabinet, already half pulled open and rummaged through by a stranger’s uninvited hands.

She ties it around her waist, and is on her way to the front door again but pauses to stoop to the fire grate.

Her nephews Matthew and Eli, both so like their mother but for her brother’s pale hazel eyes, stare up from beneath the cracked photo frame glass, identical milk teeth grins and floppy blond hair and rosy cheeks and round faces that fill the entire camera frame. She’s pocketed the photo, nicking her thumb with a glass shard in her haste before she can think about it.

She’s about to leave for real this time, but is again stopped by a bizarre flash of yellow that catches her eye, halfway under the coffee table.

She stoops a second time, bloodied thumb in her mouth, and pulls out a ripped open package with no return address.

She doesn’t recognise it, and most worryingly of all it’s big. Too big to have been posted through her letterbox, which means it would need to be signed for. And brought into her apartment.

A chill of fear runs through her, and she rips off the rest of the packaging to reveal a stretch of canvas the length of her arm. The paint is mostly golds and oranges and all the blood of sunshine, a cityscape she doesn’t recognise. Some patches are plainer than others, and it has the feel of being unfinished.

There’s a dark smear of black along the bottom, fatter than the rest of it that is out of place, and she dabs it with her finger as if expecting it to be wet.

She flips it, and on the back are a series of pencil scratchings that are for a moment indiscernible, until she recognises a looping swirl, and the eclectic shorthand she only knows from one man seems to come alive.

_Finish it right and I’ll buy you a drink._

A soft pain under her heart dimples in her chest, and she’d like to take it with her, if only for the few words that offer some lowly comfort.

She puts it down carefully on the messy coffee table, turns her back on the debris that was her life, picks up her suitcase and locks the door behind her with a hard, stuttering click.

Her fingers shake, the keys jangle, and she swallows so hard she feels her stomach drop five inches in her gut.

.

.

_Portland_

Eames is sleeping on top of his covers when he is interrupted by a loud knock that sounds more like someone is testing the locks with their fists than asking for permission to come in.

Actually, Eames is pretending to sleep – is doing a surprisingly excellent job of convincing himself – when he is interrupted first by a knock on the door and then by a man breaking into his room a few seconds later.

Arthur, to be precise.

Eames knows it is Arthur, because Arthur is the only person Eames knows who would break into his hotel room without shooting him instantly.

When he isn’t shot instantly, and the rush of the door opening blows a draft over him, he keeps his eyes closed. To his absolute horror Arthur does not speak, or even shout. He gives Eames a hard, open palmed swat on his bare thigh.

‘Arthur!’ he howls, betrayed, and sits up, chest heaving, and glares at the perfectly formed print of Arthur’s lovely right hand on his left leg.

‘You weren’t sleeping,’ Arthur dismisses without looking at him. ‘Put some clothes on.’

Eames takes him in from where he sits stubbornly, takes in his wiry frame as he paces the length of the room and scowls. Arthur looks positively _frazzled_ , and Eames should probably be worried because for a long time now bad news for Arthur has on bare principle meant bad news for Eames.

Instead he says, ‘Jesus H. Christ, Arthur. Will you shut the goddamn door behind you at least?’

Before Arthur can respond, however, they are joined by Mike Everett, and a few seconds later by Dominick Cobb, both of whom stare bewildered first at Eames, who is still in his boxer shorts, then at Arthur, who is still pacing.

‘Brilliant!’ Eames crows, throwing his hands in the air in exultation and casting around for his clothes. ‘Just brilliant.’

Arthur tosses him his trousers and continues pacing.

He’s got one leg in when Arthur finally stops.

‘Ariadne’s been attacked.’

He visibly regrets the words even before Cobb explodes, but his eyes find Eames first anyway.

‘No, no – Cobb – _Cobb_ ,’ Arthur waves down his attack, and even though he turns away Eames feels his gaze lingering. ‘Not _attacked_ – her apartment. Someone broke into her apartment. Trashed the place. She called, she was terrified. I’ve booked her a flight. She’ll be here tomorrow.’

Cobb, who quietens his roaring to a dull mumble of discontent, regardless seems the exact opposite of pacified by this.

His face is tightly scrunched with anger, a familiar expression that Eames has shamelessly mocked on more than one occasion after one too many whiskies. This is not the time for mocking, though.

The lines of Arthur’s shoulders are hunched so high they’re almost at his ears, and Eames would quite like to do something about that. Preferably something obscene that will send the two other intruders squealing out of his room.

‘Not a flight to Portland,’ Cobb says, which is precisely one of the reasons why Eames finds it so incredible that this man spent two years almost constantly in Arthur’s company.

These are questions that one does not ask Arthur if one does not particularly desire to be skinned alive, and at the look on Mike Everett’s face even _he_ knows this much.

Dominick Cobb is a man of many things, but his capacity to underestimate those around him is sometimes painful.

‘No,’ Arthur replies through gritted teeth. ‘Not to Portland. She’s flying from Paris to Seattle. She can get a regional flight to Walla Walla. I’ll drive out to pick her up.’

There is a brief reprieve from Cobb’s low muttering and bull snort breath as they consider this. Mike, who does not and should not know who Ariadne is, apparently just can’t help himself, and his voice grates on:

‘That’s like, a four hour drive,’ he says.

Eames thinks about December 2007, when Arthur drove from Sydney to Melbourne because security was crawling all over the airports, and Eames needed him and he came just in time and he _drove from Sydney to Melbourne_.

Eames doesn’t share this anecdote, but thinks instead of Ariadne, and the long flight to Seattle. He silently laments the aeroplane food she’ll have to endure.

‘Did she say who was after her?’ he asks.

Arthur stares blankly at him for a moment, and Eames realises he’s still only got one trouser leg on. Jolted into action, he pulls them on swiftly, wriggling perhaps a little too enthusiastically with his hips as Arthur replies, tense and cool.

‘No. But I like to assume she’s sensible enough that I can trust her. If she called me, it’s with good reason.’

Still watching Eames, he sounds annoyed, which is nothing new, and he looks annoyed, which is if possible even less new.

‘Well, look. _I’ll_ drive out to Walla Walla,’ Eames says, glancing around his floor for a shirt and looking up to find Arthur holding it out to him with an expression that says precisely what Arthur would rather do with the offending item.

(Arthur actually did burn two of Eames’ more brightly patterned shirts, once. Fashion week in New York, and that was excuse enough for Arthur to restock Eames’ wardrobe with a more appropriate sartorial selection.)

‘No, you certainly shall not,’ Arthur replies.

‘Arthur,’ Eames groans, rolls the name over his tongue like honey just to watch Arthur’s eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘The three of you will make more progress if you get started on planning a new way in. _I_ will fetch Ariadne.’

He offers them a look of gracious banality, one that says _This is the right idea_ to Cobb and Everett; one that says _Remember that time you pretended you wanted to be put on guard duty when actually you were worried you might fall apart if you went under with us in Amsterdam and I kept your secret for you?_ to Arthur.

Thankfully, the messages seem to reach their intended recipients, because there is a series of scuffling nods that culminates in Cobb clearing his throat loudly.

‘We should still change hotels,’ he says.

‘You’re right,’ Arthur replies. ‘We have a few hours before you’ll have to head to Washington,’ he nods to Eames.

Eames just has to hope the gratitude in his eyes is invisible to the others, because by the smirk ghosting Arthur’s face it’s perfectly visible to him.

‘Splendid,’ Eames announces, clapping his hands and brushing away Arthur’s look with a scowl. ‘Can you all kindly _vacate_ , then, please? I _was_ sleeping.’

Arthur’s smirk softens.

‘Check out in an hour, Mr Eames,’ he says with a warning in his arched eyebrow.

Eames waves him away with a swatting hand, the way he used to rid himself of Caesar, his young Labrador pup.  The thought startles him, and the frown that appears on his face must be noticeable because Arthur lingers in the doorway behind the other two, looks positively _concerned_.

‘Arthur,’ Eames grumbles.

‘Why are you such a fucking moron, Eames?’ Arthur asks bluntly. There’s fondness somewhere in his frustration, Eames knows it. He can’t bloody well hear it right now, though.

‘Arthur,’ he says again, and when it comes out as barely more than one syllable Arthur’s sigh of defeat is loud. ‘I’m not going to apologise.’

This is nothing new, and the expression on Arthur’s face conveys this quite acutely.

‘Who do you think it was?’ Eames asks before Arthur can put voice to the thoughts swirling in his dark eyes.

Arthur reaches for the door still left open, rests his palm on the handle in readiness.

‘I have no idea,’ he says, honest and vulnerable and desperately lovely.

When the door closes behind him, the sharp snap sounds muted, as if through a dream.

.

.

_Nairobi_ _; 31 st October 2012_

General Aldman is tired. He is exhausted.

It’s an exhaustion so old now, he wears it as a second skin, itching like a snake’s scales to be shed.

It’s almost midnight. He thinks he might have torn a ligament in his left forefinger.

He stands calmly at the edge of the dimly lit room as the ragdoll body of a strawberry blonde woman is slumped in a chair bolted to the middle of the room, ziptied to it like a Barbie doll in her begs, bare and bruised, and her breaths are shallow.

She’s quite beautiful, but for the abrasions and the handprints and the grime of captivity that coats her.

Aldman approaches her with only the slightest thrill of fear. He stops when both his knees are in between hers. She’ll wake up with him between her legs, and it curls something hot in his gut.

Flexing his right hand, he slaps her hard, and she gasps awake with a heaving chest. The crack of his hand on her face us loud, leaves a sting in his palm and a violent shade of red on her cheek. When she comes to, feels his presence so invasively close, she scowls.

‘What do _you_ want?’ she drawls, as if he is merely the last in a long line of inconveniences to cross her path.

Her pale green eyes are fluttering with fear, but her lips are sternly lined.

‘I want to talk, _Olivier_ ,’ he says toothily, relishes the stony expression that her face falls into at the sound of her name. ‘I Want to talk about your dreams.’

Her mouth is closed as her puts a heavy thumb over her lips. He can feel her trembling as her presses in close, her thighs quivering.

‘Let’s start with the young man in Berlin, hmm?’

.

.


End file.
